


For I Have Left the Earth, and the Sky Is Hollow

by PeachesandBones



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Aliens Made Them Do It, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Comfort/Angst, Eating Disorders, Episode: s03e09 The Tholian Web, Episode: s03e10 Plato's Stepchildren, Episode: s3e08 For the World is Hollow and I have Touched the Sky, Friends to Lovers, Loneliness, M/M, Past Abuse, Sick Character, Slow Burn, Tarsus IV, Way Too Much Introspection, for the world is hollow and i have touched the sky, lots of bureaucracy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-08-14 20:06:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8027236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeachesandBones/pseuds/PeachesandBones
Summary: Rewrite of cannon starting with Season 3, Episode 8 'For the World is Hollow and I Have Touched the Sky'. What if Kirk had forced McCoy back to The Enterprise? What if there was no deus ex machina to cure the doctor? Or, I love TOS McKirk and thought the world needed more of it.





	1. Comin' Home

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, so my confessions: I've only watched TOS, and nothing else of Star Trek. I have very little idea of the history of the Star Trek universe, and I know I've fucked up a lot of procedures/minor characters/nouns ect. Feel free to call me on it, for my own good. I'm going to aim to put up another chapter every week.
> 
> Something that intrigues me in TOS is that the theme of loneliness comes up a couple of times, and I wanted to do something to explore the idea a bit more, as well as get some McKirk in there.
> 
> This is a fic filled with angst and mopey characters who don't want to give in to their magical, sparkly love. If you're looking for something innovative, you won't find it here. But if you're like me, and just want some good TOS McKirk action, I hope this can be the junk food that your soul craves.
> 
> Bon appetite!

“You're returning with us?” It's almost phrased as a question, but there is a hard edge in Kirk's eyes and voice that makes it clear there is only one correct answer. But the good doctor is used to dealing with the occasionally overbearing captain, and can't find the energy to match his will.

“No, I'm not.” He replies simply. Kirk's eyes narrow further, contracting pupils and a slight twitch of his hand betraying the rush of a chemical cocktail readying him to fight, but his voice is smooth as he argues.

“Bones, this isn't a planet. It's a spaceship on a collision course with Daran V.” Normally, McCoy would have responded with a burst of pride, scornfully asking if Kirk really thought he had no idea what had drawn them to the asteroid in the first place. But Bones didn't want their last moments together to be spent butting egos and thumping chests.

“I'm kind of on a collision course myself, Jim.” He could curse himself for sounding so pathetic, but his ego is gone, and he is so in love with the idea of not being alone for once in his life that he's willing to play whatever pathetic tools he has in his arsenal to get it. He can see the determination on the captain's features as he runs through his own toolbox, thinking quickly on his feet. Leonard has always admired the man's way with words, and knows he will miss Jim terribly.

“Dr. McCoy, I order you to return with us.” For a moment, Bones is surprised. Jim sounds petulant, like a child making a last, desperate move to get what he wants. He's reminded of the captain that obsessively hunted the blood sucking cloud a few months ago, irrational and petty in his conquest. This was not a side of the captain he would reminisce over.

“And I refuse.”

“Bones, if we can't correct the course of this ship, we'll have to blast it out of space!” Jim tries playing good cop again, reverting to his nickname, appealing to his logical side. McCoy feels uncomfortable, and wishes Jim would just _stop_ and board the Enterprise.

“I intend to stay on this ship, with these people, whatever happens.” Jim tightens his lips, and McCoy meets his harsh gaze with as much solemnity and steadfastness as he can. Jim is angry, and the doctor feels dead on his feet, and just wants this conversation to be over.

“Your decision is most illogical, doctor.” Spock pipes in. Bones bites back an insult on his tongue. No, Spock wouldn't understand. His world may have been turned upside down, but logic was to be found no matter the orientation of one's reality.

“Is it, Mr. Spock? Is it really?” He asks softly. “Natria's asked me to stay, and I'm staying.”

“As her husband?” The captain asks.

“Yes. Is that too much to ask, Jim?” A battle rages in Kirk's eyes, and McCoy sees some comprehension and sympathy, but there is also a dark cloud of betrayal storming, and a pang of guilt twists like a knife in his gut. There is a moment of silence between the three men, and McCoy's eyes shift downward to the dusky rock surface as he wills his insides to stop aching and he waits for his captain's leave.

“Dr. McCoy,” He says finally. “I believe your illness has emotionally compromised you and is causing you to act in ways which would be considered suicidal. As captain of the ship, it was my error in allowing you to be part of this landing party, which I take full responsibility for. Until you have been examined by a psychologist or a medical professional, I am taking protective custody of you, and I forbid you from staying on this asteroid.” McCoy jolts, eyes widening and he looks to Spock, who, as far as Leonard can tell, looks as surprised as his Vulcan features will let him.

“Jim, you can't do that!” He meant the words to come out as a hiss, but they were more a whine, and in any other circumstance he would have hated himself for it. “You aren't a medical professional, and you cannot unilaterally declare someone mentally unfit, nevermind take protective custody of them! There are regulations against this type of power-hungry madness! Right, Spock?” His face once again resumes its equilibrium, but the doctor knows that part of the science officer is delighted to supply official Starfleet orders to this unusual impasse.

“Doctor, to be truthful, there aren't any regulations specifically addressing this situation.” Spock replies. “As Chief Medical Officer, you would obviously be the commanding officer in charge of the landing party's physical and mental well-being. However, the captain is the leading officer of the landing party as a whole, and of the ship. As you are the only medical professional on board to make such an assessment, the issue of you being compromised makes this a situation which Starfleet has not issued ordinances for. Logically, I would assume that as the captain is responsible for you as part of the crew, that he does have the right to temporarily prevent you from making illogical and ill-advised decisions until a qualified professional from Starfleet can determine if you lack capacity to make your own choices.” Jim has a slight upturn of his lips and a light in his eyes which meant that he has declared victory, and for a moment McCoy sees red as his chest tightens and his intestines turn cold.

“Even if I am commandeered back to this ship on this... ridiculous abuse of authority, declaring me incompetent means that I can't act as a doctor. The ship will have no physician on it until M'Benga returns from leave or Starfleet sends another medical officer.” He flusters. Kirk shrugs, that same smile still playing about his lips.

“If you stay here we're in the same situation, doctor.” McCoy doesn't know who he wants to punch first, but he's pretty sure it's the captain for being so fucking selfish, but Spock comes in at a close second for giving some sort of half-cocked legitimacy to his scheme. He takes a step forward, to do God knows what, but suddenly the adrenal rush and the pain from the Oracle's punishment catches up with him. He's falling, but only briefly, because the ground becomes an endless sky and he's falling through the stars, and once again the vast emptiness of space reminds him of how alone he is.

 

Jim catches his friend as he falls, and uses his crouched position as an opportunity to throw his officer over his should in a fireman's carry. McCoy's dead weight is comforting, and although Jim knows that he shouldn't feel this way about one of his best friends, he feels a primal sense of victory. Bones can't leave him. There may be alternate universes, but there is never one in which Bones isn't at his side, challenging him, shouting at him, drinking with him at a late night tête-à-tête. He wasn't going to allow the doctor to fuck up the entire space time continuum because he was feeling a little more irrational than usual.

He nods to Spock, who has his communicator open and is gazing questioningly at the sandy blond. “Tell the crew we're ready.”

“Captain...” He says slowly. “Are you sure this is the best course of action?”

“No, Spock.” He replies honestly. “But as you know, a captain can never truly know if he has taken the best course of action until the situation is over, if he ever truly knows at all.” Spock doesn't reply, his stoic Vulcan mannerisms creating a moment of doubt in Jim, like they often do. However, as usual, he pushes the thoughts aside. What is done is done.

“Spock to Enterprise. Beam up three officers from the asteroid's surface.”


	2. Conversations with Starfleet

Kirk and Spock resume their positions on the bridge after dropping off the unconscious McCoy at the sick bay. Christine had been horrified, and had launched into a tirade about the irresponsibility of allowing a sick man to be part of a landing party. Kirk had agreed and vowed never to do it again, and rushed off before she could burst into tears or add to the feelings of discomfort rising in him.

“Did you find anything useful on the asteroid?” Uhura asks.

“Yes. The asteroid is run by a computer. Chances to access the computer in person on the asteroid seem to have closed on us, but I think we should be able to hack it from here. Mr. Spock, what do you think?” Kirk defers.

“Wirelessly accessing the ship's computer shouldn't be difficult.” The Vulcan surmises. “If the technology is indeed 10,000 years old, or even a fraction of that, it should be simple to force entry and program our own instructions. The most challenging part of this will be keeping the ship on the same course as the asteroid without being pulled into it's gravitational pull. The size of the asteroid means that it doesn't have an orbit that we can rest in while working, but with our relative size we can't risk getting sucked in. Mr. Sulu will have to stay within 500 kilometers while managing these risks.” Kirk nods, and turns his gaze towards his helmsman.

“Mr. Sulu?” He asks.

“Not a problem captain. Mr. Spock, let me know when you intend to begin.”

“Lieutenant Uhura?” The sandy blond asks, twisting his body over his left shoulder.

“I should be able to establish a connection with the ship's computer system, although this type of situation was a short, theoretical lesson taught in school that I've never had to use in a real world setting.” She cautions, her dark brown eyes less cock-sure than usual. Spock nods his assent.

“If you are having difficulties, Uhura, I am sure that we can find some assistance in engineering. I will confer with the computer scientists and report back.” He says as he strides over to the lift.

“Mr. Spock?” The captain raises a finger, and Spock halts, turning back towards his friend. “Can you send Scotty up to cover me for a while? I have some reports that I need to get to straight away.” His eyes flash with an understanding.

“Captain, if I may, Mr. Scott was just relieved of his duty on the bridge when we arrived. I will be able to take command when I return from discussing the issue with Engineering, assuming the reports can wait appropriately 15 minutes?” Jim lets out a small smile.

“Of course. We wouldn't want to take him away from his lady more than absolutely necessary.” Spock turns again into the lift, and Kirk allows himself to relax in his chair for a moment. At least one part of the mission seems to be going right. And Spock had graciously bought him 15 minutes in which to figure out exactly how he was going to approach Starfleet, and to ponder the bigger mystery of what the hell he was going to say to the ship's incapacitated CMO.

 

When McCoy wakes up, he's confused. Squinting against the soft lights of the sickbay, he's unsure about how he wound up there. For a moment, he remembers the stars and part of him wonders if he simply fell off of the asteroid and crashed into the sickbay. After a few deep breaths, the rest of his mind catches up and the events of the last hour come back to him. And he is _furious_.

He could almost forgive Jim if the captain had knocked him out and drug him back to the ship, he thinks. Used the pressure points that he was taught at Starfleet, or gotten Spock to do his Vulcan nerve pinch. That would be a slightly more honest, mano-a-mano resolution. Even though he knew that fighting wasn't in his repertoire even when he was at this healthiest, there was no problem between two men that an honest brawl couldn't fix. But pulling rank _twice_ , and declaring him incapacitated in his own affairs? That was a low move that he never would have suspected the captain would even _think_ of pulling, especially on _him_. McCoy hops off of the biobed, straightens his uniform, and marches down to the Bridge.

 

“Captain Kirk.” Admiral Fitzgerald's grey head of hair and lukewarm smile pop up on the tiny screen in the conference room. “I hope you and your crew are well.”

“Mostly.” Kirk affirms. “But there is something that I need to speak with Starfleet about urgently.”

“And what would that be?” Jim licks his lips, and tried to not think too hard about his words.

“As you know, I put in a request for another CMO to be assigned to _The Enterprise_ due to the illness of Doctor McCoy.” Part of him itches to throw in a barb about how a replacement was never assigned for M'Benga while he was granted leave for a family emergency, but he knows to play his politics better than that. Even if Starfleet wasn't underfunded, they were _always_ short on doctors, and criticism wouldn't win him any friends when he needed them.

The admiral nods, and Kirk continues. “Our ship was attacked by missiles, which we destroyed. We found the source of the missiles, which was an asteroid headed on a collision course with Daran V. I will complete a full report about this later, but a problem arose which requires immediate Starfleet attention.”

“How long until impact, and have you managed to divert the asteroid?”

“365 days, and my crew is currently implementing a plan. We do not require Starfleet's assistance as this time with this issue.” Jim keeps his face as charming as ever, but he _hates_ being interrupted, especially when he is trying to speak about something so sensitive and, he admits to himself, possibly career-jeopardizing. “Doctor McCoy requested permission to beam down as part of the landing party, and while I didn't think it wise in his condition, I ignored my intuition and allowed him to transport to the asteroid, which was an error in my judgement.” He confesses.

“I'm sensing there is more to this story than letting a dying man be part of a landing party?” The admiral asks, and Kirk is fairly sure he only interjects because he hasn't heard the sound of his own voice in 30 seconds. But his mind freezes at the word 'sick', and finally the entire situation _hits_ him. Bones is _dying. Sick. Terminally ill._ He had managed to wall it up before, being immediately concerned about the asteroid and Daran V and missiles, and the threat of a death in a year being too far out of his thought range. But in this white washed room, devoid of the panic and company of the bridge, the word 'dying' seems to vibrate off of the medical sterility of the paint job, and there is nothing to silence it as it ricochets around the room and around his mind. Jim is lost, and he absent-mindedly swallows a lump in his throat as his brain begins to unravel the complexities of the situation.

“Continue, captain.” The admiral commands, and Jim jerks his head up.

“Apologies, admiral.” He takes a deep breath. “Now, when we - “

“Jim!” There is a loud banging on the door, and both the admiral and the captain jump at the intensity. “Jim, let me in there or so God help me you won't be knowin' what hit ya when you report to sickbay!” McCoy yells through the door.

“Bones.” Jim tries to save face. “I am in the middle of a confidential conversation with Starfleet Command. That is why the door is _locked_.”

“Bones?” The admiral asks. “You don't have anyone on your ship by that surname.”

“It's a...” Kirk winces in spite of himself. “...moniker I gave to Doctor McCoy.”

“Ah.” The admiral still looks confused.

“I know EXACTLY what you're fucking talking about, and I refuse to allow you to give a one-sided account of this situation!”

“Doctor McCoy, you will have your chance to submit your report to Starfleet as well, _in due time_.” The sandy blond states loudly, running his hand through his hair frustratedly.

“I take it this incident has to do with the doctor?” Fitzgerald enquires.

“Yes.”

“Then let him come and give his statement as well.” For a moment, Jim is shocked.

“Admiral, with all due respect, I don't think that this is protocol for-” An irritated look crosses the admiral's face, which surprises Kirk, who had found his superior always had an attitude of focused disinterest no matter what the situation.

“Do you know how many ships I have in my fleet? How much paperwork I have to sort through? How many petty disputes I have to mediate? If I can handle both of you in one call and be done with it, I will happily take this recorded video as a report rather than wasting my time with two calls and two additional reports from the both of you. Let Doctor McCoy speak his case.” The captain was sure that this was possibly a worse idea than letting Bones be part of the landing party in the first place, and his head was filled with jagged pieces that kept piercing his concentration already, but he nodded as he stood up and entered the code to allow access to the grumpy doctor.

 

Leonard, in his rage, had been sure that, one way or another, he was getting in on that call to Starfleet, but when Jim opens the door with a dark scowl, he finds himself surprised. When Uhura had informed him that, no, she could not open a private channel to Starfleet because Kirk had beat him to the chase, he really hadn't had a plan in mind other than using his seething rage to get his way. He hadn't thought much past the point where the Bones of his imagination had hulkishly ripped through the titanium doors to interrupt the Starfleet call and tell command about what an _asshole_ his captain was. But Jim's darkened look took some wind out of his sails, which was irrational because _he_ was the one who should be angry! Yet, he concedes, telling the captain to go and fuck himself with the pointiest pair of scissors on board in front of the admiral would probably not reflect on him well.

“What are you telling them?” He demands.

“We haven't gotten to that part yet.” Kirk growls at him. McCoy relaxes. Yelling Jim he can deal with, it's a beast he's tangled with before. Kirk massages the back of his neck, and in a more subdued tone, reports “Admiral Fitzgerald would like us both to state our reports in this conference call. Less paperwork.”

“He's a smart man, Captain.” The brunet moves past his commanding officer, and Jim's sits back in his own chair while McCoy pulls up another one, being careful not to place it in striking distance of the his superior. For Jim’s safety.

“Admiral.” McCoy nods towards the camera.

“Doctor.” The silver-haired man nods back. “Now, since Captain Kirk was beginning his sordid tale, I will listen to his account first, and you can argue your case afterwards. Continue, Jim.”

“Right.” Jim struggles to collect his thoughts under his previous best friend's baleful eye. “Once we were on the asteroid, we found that there were people living inside of it. Doctor McCoy was accosted by the priestess of these people, who asked him to stay with her as her husband. When it came time for the landing party to depart the asteroid, McCoy refused to return with us, stating he wanted to stay there. I pointed out that this essentially amounted to suicide, as the asteroid was on a collision course with Daran V. He still refused to come back aboard, so I ordered him back on the ship. He refused my order.”

“Doctor McCoy,” the admiral sighs tiredly.

“I'm not done.” Jim says pointedly. “On my authority as captain, and the most responsible officer of the landing party, I declared McCoy emotionally compromised and suicidal, and thus incapable of making life-altering decisions. I put him under my protective custody.” There was a moment of near silence, except for the sound of the doctor grinding his teeth.

“Captain...” Fitzpatrick seems flabbergasted, and his mouth moves awkwardly as he tries to find words to say. “That is quite above your level of medical abilities as a captain. You do not have the training to make such a declaration.”

“No.” Kirk agrees. “But aside from Doctor McCoy, no one on this ship does. We were not sent a replacement when Doctor M'Benga had to go on leave, and as we have no trained psychologist on board, we don’t have anyone available to objectively assess him. While I do not have the training to make a binding medical declaration or to create a treatment plan for Doctor McCoy, I am responsible for my crew members, and with our own doctor being compromised, I did what I had to do for the safety of my crew member and friend.” He hears a slight 'tut' come from behind him, but steadfastly ignores the brunet. “I am requesting that Starfleet provide us with another doctor as quickly as possible, as well as a psychologist to further discuss the capacity of Doctor McCoy in his present state.”

“I see.” Fitzgerald rubs his eyes hard, no doubt realizing the _extent_ of the paperwork that would be involved in this case. “Are you done?”

“Yes sir.” He replies, keeping his eyes locked on the screen as he feels two holes being burned into his back. The admiral nods, still slowly rubbing his closed eyes in large circles, and waves the captain aside.

“Doctor McCoy, what is your report on the events?” Jim gets up and McCoy takes his place in front of the screen, neither man looking at each other as they swap places.

“I am not disputing the events, but the rationale and the legality of this situation, as well as the fact that it violates several principles of Starfleet itself, such as the right to self-determination.”

“Doctor McCoy,” The admiral is once again looking at the camera, and his expression can only be described as dour. “If we are going to talk about the legalities of the situation, may I remind you that, even if we wanted to pretend you didn't disobey a direct order from your captain, that abandoning your starship to go and live on another planet constitutes abandonment of your patients? And are you aware that this can lead to being discharged not _only_ by Starfleet, but also having your license revoked on earth?” Bones feels prickles run up his spine.

“Sir, I had no active patients on _The Enterprise_ at the time of my transport to the asteroid, and thus no medical obligations to fulfill.”

“It doesn't matter.” The admiral cuts him off miserably. “There are 430 crew members on board, and even if they are not currently receiving medical treatments, _every. single. one._ of them is considered an active patient. The fact that you were ready to abandon your post is bad enough, but leaving 430 people, floating through space without _ANY_ prescribing medical personnel could be construed as neglect at best, and treason at worst. Quite frankly, you are lucky that the captain considers you emotionally compromised, because otherwise I would be forced to have you put in the brigg and dropped off at the nearest Starbase for a hearing and sentencing.” Fitzgerald sighs and stares off into the corner of the screen for a moment, and Bones sits in his seat, frozen and he swears he can feel the blood pool and overflown in his boots. It seems stupid to be worried about his career when he's going to be dead in a year, but being a doctor was all he had. _And he hadn't even spared a thought to it._

“As to whether Captain Kirk's claim of protective custody is legally binding... well, Starfleet doesn't have regulations to cover such a situation of a protective custody being given without a psychological evaluation, although we should have known we'd come into it eventually with our dearth of doctors. I am unaware of any precedents. But for now, I will uphold his observation of your compromised state and his decision to take custody of you until you can be assessed by someone with proper training.” 

“But sir,” McCoy protests. 

“Would you rather I order your captain to transport you to a Starbase, doctor?” Bones swallows a knot of fear and rage. 

“No sir.” 

“Very well. This still leaves you without a practicing doctor on board.” He sighs, and a morbid part of Leonard wonders if perhaps he'll have an aneurysm or a stroke right in front of them. “Captain Kirk, you have stated your case for questioning the doctor's ability to make decisions regarding his own safety and well-being. Do you think that his ability to treat patients has also been affected?” Jim furrows his brow and looks down as McCoy glares at him. After a moment, he raises his head. 

“No Admiral. I believe that, while the doctor might be a danger to himself, I can't believe that even in this state that he would ever compromise the medical well-being of anyone on this ship. Even if I had to go to sickbay myself in the next half hour, I would trust McCoy to abide by his medical ethics.” 

“Good.” His superior seems to take a small breath of relief. “He may continue to practice medicine as long as you see fit or until contradicted by a medical assessment. Starfleet will send further orders to Captain Kirk as soon as we can get...” The tired admiral flicks his hand meaninglessly across his desk “... this... figured out. Until then, you have guardianship of the doctor, including his finances, his comings and goings, and his medical decisions.” Bones has stopped feeling angry by this point. He just feels small, infantile and impotent, and he looks down, unable to watch the two men talk about his _guardianship_ , as if he was some space orphan that no one wanted to deal with. 

“Thank you, Admiral.” Jim pipes up from the backbenches. Fitzgerald gives a small nod. 

“Good day, gentlemen.” And the transmission fades, leaving the two friends alone in the room that feels too small to breathe and yet too big to ever cross at the same time. 

After a few minutes, Bones hasn't moved, hasn't even looked away from the spackled floor beneath him. Jim frowns, eyes swimming with tenderness and worry, and he's afraid of the reaction he is going to get, but as the captain he knows it is his job to bridge the gap between them. As a friend, he knows that he must accept whatever punishment his commands have brought him. 

“Bones.” He calls out softly, and slowly approaches the sitting man, who doesn't respond to him. Jim crouches down to be eye level with his friend, but the doctor still won't meet his imploring gaze. Kirk grasps the man's bicep, giving it a couple of slow, reassuring strokes. “Bones... I'm sorry... I didn't want it to be like this.” His words earn him a choked sob as his friend finally looks at him, eyes red with unshed tears and the fear of a trapped animal etched into the angles of his face. 

“You must be right.” The brunet whispers slowly. “I must be compromised. You both agreed. How _could_ a doctor leave his patients? And for what? To fuck some beautiful alien woman for 365 days? Even you've never abandoned your crew to go and chase some intergalactic tail.” He hiccups as he lets out a harsh, watery laugh. “I am a stupid man, Jim. Just a fuckin' ridiculous shell of what a man should be.” 

“Bones,” Jim whispers, urgently trying to find the words that will make it all right, that will fix his friend. “Bones, you're not any of that. You're – you're just,” and that lump comes back into his throat, and all the thoughts that had been interrupted by the admiral are finally given free range across the axons and dendrites of his brain tissue, and he says the word he hasn't had the balls to entertain before now. “You're sick. So incredibly sick.” And now that the word has come out it's the only word that can cross his mind, accompanied by mental imagines of Bones, wasting away in bed, unable to move on his own, and pictures of his empty cabin, of a bridge without a blue shirt, of long evenings where Kirk is drinking alone. Something tears inside his chest, and he suddenly feels _alone_ , as if the emptiness of space could swallow him whole and no one would even notice. Tears come to his eyes, and he grasps the back of his best friend's neck and gently pushes their foreheads together so Bones can't see him falling apart too, but he knows his voice betrays him as he whispers “And we're going to make you better. I don't believe in no-win scenarios, Bones.” 


	3. On Death and Dying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arlight, I found this TOS McKirk fan vid and [I wanted to share it with everyone!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a2l8ielhr6w) It's the only TOS one I've found, so if you know of any more, I'd love to hear about it!

The computer scientists on the engineering team work through the evening and late into the morning, aided by Spock and Uhura, but they manage to hack into the ship's computer systems.

“Accessing the ship's computer system was very easy.” Spock briefs him as Kirk assumes command for the alpha shift. “The makers of the technology obviously didn't consider the idea of outside parties having any desire to interfere with the ship's functioning. However, it was difficult to maintain a working distance from the asteroid without being pulled into its gravitational pull. The engineers had to make multiple attempts upon the asteroid before finally maintaining a connection long enough to be able to overhaul the ship's navigational instructions. We've also updated the ship's charts in order to provide current data, and inserted programming that allows it to foresee any possible collisions on it's course up to a year in advance, and to divert if they are on a collision course within seven days. However, I will put in a recommendation to Starfleet to keep surveillance on the asteroid. Before we input the charts, it seems to have no actual map of planets in it's memory, and was purely operating by a kind of echo location, with the only option of destroying anything in it's path that the computer deemed the ship's weaponry system could take out. Starfleet should be providing updated maps as the asteroid moves throughout the galaxy.” Jim frowns, and rubs his eyes. He hadn't slept much last night, as waves of anxiety like he hadn't felt since the academy swept over him. His one period of sleep had been marred by a dream that he had woken up from in a cold sweat

“How did it survive for so long? It should have crashed into a planet, or been destroyed by ships that have human intelligence to assist them.” Spock nods in agreement.

“It is nothing short of miraculous.” Jim sighs.

“Space never ceases to amaze and frustrate me.” He eyes the unfamiliar helmsmen, who he believes is named Smith, and throws a glance over to the corner where Lieutenant Uhura usually inhabits. “I take it Uhura and Sulu are catching up on some rest?”

“Indeed, captain, as well as Mr. Scott. I assumed command from him, and told all crew members who were involved in this effort to report for alpha shift tomorrow. I have temporarily re-arranged the schedules to ensure that all crew members will receive adequate rest periods.” Kirk makes a sound of approval and appreciation. He loved it when the small details could get taken care of without him, and he sends a silent prayer of gratitude to whatever deity there may be for giving him such a dependable crew.

“And you, Mr. Spock?” He asks.

“I do not require as much rest as the schedule creates for humans, and I will work until beta shift takes over.” He replies, and turns back to the control panel for the ship. Kirk himself turns back to his view of the stars, and follows up his moment of gratitude with a prayer that nothing exciting will happen today, because he isn’t up for it. He feels… unusually lonely.

He glances around the bridge, because something is missing. Uhura and Sulu are resting, and that is fine, and there is a man on every station, nothing is physically out of place…

Except for McCoy. They had a ritual – after receiving reports from the last shift, Bones would meander up to the Bridge, two cups of coffee in hand, and they would prattle on about… well, nothing in particular. Where _The Enterprise_ was headed, what the upcoming day looked like in the sickbay. Sometimes Bones would go on about an article he had read about a medical trial regarding some alien flu Kirk had never heard of, and while the captain didn’t really care, it brought a smile to his face to see his friend so passionate and excited. Sometimes, if Kirk was busy, McCoy would simply stand with a hand on the back of the captain’s chair, watching him work, or gazing at the star screen. Kirk would never admit it to anyone, but Bones’s presence made him a little more cocky than usual, like he was showing off, which was a little ironic because generally the doctor would berate him for any impulsive decisions later.

Before he can stop himself, he presses the button on the conn.

“Bridge to sickbay.” A pause, then

“Chapel here.” Kirk frowns.

“Has Doctor McCoy shown up for Alpha shift?”

“Yes.” Christine huffs. “And I don’t think it’s appropriate.”

“Oh. Well…” Kirk racks his brain. “I was, uh… just checking. Kirk out.” He slums in his seat slightly, and, even if he won’t admit it to anyone else, he pouts a little. No Bones, no coffee…

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his lieutenant commander raise an eyebrow in what he assumes is the Vulcan expression for... well, Jim doesn't really know and doesn't particularly give a shit.

“Spock, you have the conn. Back in a few minutes.” He’d have to get his own damn cup of coffee.

 

When McCoy shows up for Alpha shift in sick bay, Christine nearly shits a couple of kittens right on the pristine floor of his office.

“Leonard!” She cries, setting down her hypospray and striding towards him. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I'm doing my job, Christine.” He replies grumpily. Her lips turn downwards in a scowl of disapproval and she clucks her tongue like some sort of mother hen, and McCoy wants to slap her like he slapped that pregnant woman on Capella IV.

“After your visit in sickbay yesterday? After your _diagnosis_? That is untenable. Who is letting you return to work?”

“Well, darlin', I am the only prescribing medical personnel on this ship, so I'm giving myself clearance to come back. And what are you going to do if a patient wanders up here?” His head nurse looks hurt and a little offended, and Bones gives himself a mental shake. It was _never_ in a doctor's best interest to piss off his nursing staff.

“I'm sorry.” He mutters, dropping into a southern baritone. “It's just been a long 24 hours for me. I know you're capable of doing almost everything I can do, but it would be irresponsible for me to saddle you with the decision of letting a patient go untreated or risking your license to make diagnoses or do procedures that you're not legally able to perform.” He doesn't want to tell her that he had been entirely willing to put her in that awkward place, that desperation and fear had outweighed any practical considerations, even if he had been capable of such long range planning at the time. Her eyes soften, and she takes his hand, giving it a little squeeze before dropping it again.

“I know, doctor. You were overworked before this, and now...” She sighs, frustrated. “Is Doctor M'Benga coming back?”

“Not as far as I know. I assume Jim has already requested another doctor from Starfleet to replace me when I'm gone, but I have no idea if we'll be seeing another physician on board until then.” She frowns, eyes swimming with a concerned compassion, and once again Bones is awash in shame and regret. He had been entirely willing to let Christine sweat it out in sickbay with her nursing team and no physician. Christine, and the rest of the nurses, had never been anything but professional, courteous, conscientious and knowledgeable, and he had been willing to leave them hanging while Starfleet scrambled for a qualified doctor because of his inability to handle his diagnosis.

Yet, he imagines long nights spent with the priestess, her adoring eyes gazing at him as if he were the most precious jewel in the universe, and he heart clenches. He knew it wasn’t the woman herself he had been attracted to. She was stunning, but no more special than the hundreds of other beautiful alien women he had seen. No, he just loved the idea of lazily fucking his way through the last year of his life, exchanging lazy caresses and secret smiles and being wrapped up entirely in a honeymoon that wouldn’t end once they got to know each other too well. His heart ached with a loneliness he had never been able to find a cure for.

“Leonard, you're not going to die from this. You can't.” Christine says with an air of determination and finality, and Bones can only give her a small smile.

“We'll see what we can do about that, Christine.”

“Well, Doctor, you had better start scouring every research article, homeopathic treatment option and consulting every expert we have.” She turns on her heel and bobs back into his office, before returning with three data disks. “I've done some preliminary research for you. The sickbay has been incredibly slow.” McCoy smiles, soft and low, not looking at her as his eyes begin to swim again. He can't keep crying, because he did that all of last night, but the women in his life have never been as soft and giving as she has. Her genuineness and fierce protectiveness stirred up an additional, deeply rooted sense of shame he had not touched since he left earth, and he tries to block out the emotions as they arise in his chest.

“Thank you.” He murmurs. “I will start here.”

 

“Sir.” Uhura's replacement, Greta, turns to the captain. “I have a request from Admiral Fitzgerald for a private transmission for you.” Kirk, quite frankly, is surprised there is news so soon. Starfleet was known for being a slow moving machine, and the fact that there could be news in less than 24 hours meant that they view the situation with himself and Bones as a ticking time bomb.

“Yes. Send the transmission to the conference room. Mr. Spock, please take over.” He requests, leaping off of his chair before either of his crew members have a chance to reply.

 

“Admiral, how nice to see you again.” Kirk says dryly as the man's still irritate face appears on screen.

“It's a pleasure, Captain Kirk.” He assures acerbically. “I'll cut right to the chase: we don't currently have any doctors able to come aboard the ship. We cannot recruit enough medical doctors, and Starfleet underestimated the number of psychologists and psychiatrists the fleet would require. However, in lieu of a physical presence aboard the ship, we have set up a video transmission for sessions with a psychologist for both you and Doctor McCoy.” Kirk raises his eyebrows.

“For _me_ , Admiral?” He asks. “What is the rationale?”

“Look, Captain,” He fidgets uncomfortably in his seat. “I would never accuse you of anything myself, but for a captain to order protective custody of one of his crew members is an... unusual step. You yourself are the epitome of what a captain should be, but less scrupulous captains... those who joined Starfleet with a hunger for power in their hearts... well, this could be seen as a power play between you and Doctor McCoy. A type of bullying or harassment. Starfleet has commanded that you also undergo psychological evaluation and counselling to ensure that your reasons for stripping a man of his self-determination isn't for nefarious purposes.” Jim nods slowly.

“I see.”

“On one hand, we haven't had any complaints of you abusing your authority or violating Starfleet orders for the purposes of self-interest. On the other hand... the fact that McCoy has a terminal illness raised hackles at the ethics meeting we had. If McCoy had almost any other position on the ship, his wish to be left on the asteroid would have had to have been granted as his right to self-determination in the last days of his life supersedes his contract with Starfleet. You unilaterally granting yourself the right to control medical decisions and finances looks... suspicious. I have been told to remind you that you may not change any pre-existing written medical directives or wills Doctor McCoy has, and that upon his death, financial control reverts to his estate.”

“Of course, Admiral. I can assure you this isn't an attempt to bully or financially manipulate Doctor McCoy. My only aim is to keep my friend safe.” Jim replies.

“I know you, Jim. I know that isn't in your character. Starfleet just needs some reassurance that this isn't going to become a common theme for you.” The Admiral coughs, and grabs a glass of water sitting on his desk. “Now, despite the debate, Starfleet has decided, as a body, to uphold your protective custody rights until the psychologist has declared that McCoy is able to make his own decisions, or until his passing. They have also decided, given your confidence in him and our current understaffing, that he will be able to continue to practice medicine, once again until you or the psychologist believes he is unable to or until he is too sick to work. We are working on a replacement for Doctor McCoy, but we only have 15 doctors who are ending their contracts in the next year who could act as CMO, and we'll have to see if any of them are willing to sign up again. No one has currently requested a transfer. We should have 20 doctors fresh out of training in the next year, which may allow us to place a training physician on your ship as well, but I can't make any promises.”

“I understand.” The Admiral sighs, and looks frustrated.

“It is a shame that McCoy has become ill. Our resources are stretched thin enough as it is, and surprising as it may be, 70% of physicians only sign up for service for five years. Most are not interested in coming back, and that stretches our senior officers even more sparsely.”

“Yes.” Jim smiles painfully. “That is the real tragedy about this situation.” The Admiral flinches as he realizes he's crossed a line, and once again coughs and reaches for his water glass.

“Anyway, your missions will be organized so that your ship is available via video link with Starbase IV for counselling sessions until they end.”

“Yes, about that...” Jim flashes the calm, collected smile that always seems to win over his superior officers. “I would like to request that Starfleet put us on missions with a more medical bent. I understand that Asclopios III, which isn't terribly far away, has researchers working on many blood and respiratory diseases. Perhaps they need some assistance, a supply run?” He suggests. Fitzgerald sighs again, and Kirk thinks he can almost watch the man's hair grow more grey. But this time his sigh isn't one of annoyance.

“Captain, I understand that this man is your friend, and that you feel very strongly for him. However, I can't lose your ship for a year while you trail around the galaxy looking for a cure to something that has been unsolved for two centuries.”

“I understand, Admiral. But please, keep _The Enterprise_ in mind if something does come up?” He pleads. The tired looking man nods.

“I will do that.”

“Thank you.”

“Also, your first appointment with the psychologist will be at 19:00 UTC tonight. McCoy's will follow at 20:00 UTC. Be ready to receive live transmission.”

“Does this psychologist have a name?” Kirk asks.

“It is...” His superior wracks his brain. “Dr. Gleeson, I believe.”

“Alright. Thank you, Admiral.” Kirk stands up as the transmission cuts out, and sighs into the quiet room. He knows he must go and inform his friend about his appointment, but part of him doesn't even want to see McCoy. The doctor makes him feel broken. How can he face the man who cared for him in sickbay so many times, who always knew when to show up in his quarters with some drinks and friendly ear, and tell him that he didn't have a clue on how to save him? That when he forced the man to come back aboard _The Enterprise_ , it wasn't with some grandiose plan to return him to health, or to prevent the ship from being without a doctor? That he prevented his best friend from staying on that self-propelled hunk of scrap metal because Jim couldn't bear to think that Bones would want to spend the rest of his life without him?

It would be good to omit that from a conversation with the psychologist, he thinks.

 

When Jim shows up in sickbay, Leonard freezes for a moment, and flushes with embarrassment. After crying foolishly at the end of the call with the admiral, Bones had ripped himself away from Jim's grip and headed to his quarters without looking back. The moment had caught him off guard, and he had felt stripped and raw. Jim's touches, as gentle and reassuring as they were meant to be, had only made him feel worse, as though instead of massaging the back of his neck, Jim had reached in and started pulling out his entrails inch by inch. So McCoy had run, and added it to his list of sins that he had berated himself the entire night for.

“Bones.” Jim calls out and smiles, but Leonard knows that he feels the awkwardness too. His eyes betray an uncertain wariness, and his stride towards his office takes a gentler approach, waiting for some sign of acceptance or rejection.

“Jim.” He tries to smile back, but he knows that it falls flat on his face as he waves his captain over.

“I, uh... just need a quick word with you.” Jim says quietly. Bones nods, and closes the door to his office. Both men settle in their chairs, and Kirk fixes his gaze on the brunet, observing him questioningly. Leonard stares at the ceiling, and wishes he could say something, but no coherent thoughts will form under Jim's powerful stare.

“Bones...” He says quietly. “Are you still angry with me?” Leonard lowers his gaze from the ceiling, and allows it to slowly wander until they can finally reach Kirk's worried hazel eyes.

“No Jim. I'm not.” The captain's frown relaxes, and he can almost feel the tension ease out of his friend.

“Good. I never did this to hurt you.”

“I know.” And he wishes he could say more than two words at a time, but he doesn't know what sort of useless babble would come out if he tried to force it, so he keeps silent.

“We, uh... well, Starfleet has ordered us both to see a counsellor. By live transmission feed.” It's Leonard's turn to frown, and his eyes look to the captain questioningly.

“Why you? Did Spock place _you_ under protective custody?” This earns him a cheap, heart-filled laugh, and for a moment he joins in with a grin of his own.

“No, thank God. Can you imagine Spock having protective custody of _anyone_? I wouldn't be able to eat meat, I'd have to meditate for three hours a day, and every time I'd open my mouth, he would say-” Jim deadpans in his best Spock impression. “'Illogical, Captain. Try again.'” Bones lets out a genuine laugh, and it feels so _good_ , and Kirk's impression is so _bad_ that he can't stop, his mirth coming out like a waterfall, and his face turns red as he tries to suck in air.

“Bones.” Kirk is smiling, and that impish light returns to his hazel eyes. “It's really not that funny.” But McCoy can't stop, and soon Jim succumbs to the giggles as well, until they're both doubled over the desk, red faced as tears run down their faces.

“Fuck, Jim, I needed that.” McCoy admits as they finally begin to calm down. “So, really, why do they have you going to a shrink?” Jim wipes at his eyes with the corner of his sleeve, a giggle escaping as he starts to answer.

“Well, Starfleet apparently is worried I'm going to start killing off crew members to collect the enormous salaries they're paying everyone – Jesus Bones, that wasn't even...” Leonard slips out of his chair and onto the floor, rolling from side to side, and Jim just covers his eyes with his hands, dissolving into another fit of laughter.

 

Jim had wandered down to the recreation room after his shift had ended. It wasn’t a place he had the chance to visit much, and he realized this had robbed him of the chance to really get to know members of the crew besides his two commanding officers. There was always an excuse – too much paperwork, a need to reflect on his actions as captain that day – but the truth was, he had never really considered any of them as individuals. In his mind, they were all part of a hive that kept the ship afloat, the worker ants to his queen. It was an arrogance that he had never questioned until Bones’ xenopolycythemia, and he was beginning to realize that his attitude had been enabled because of an incredibly competent, hardworking staff – any of whom could disappear at a moment’s notice.

He allows himself to be soothed by Uhura’s strong voice as she sings. There weren’t many chances for her to break out into song on the bridge, and he thinks of how many times he has missed the opportunity to hear her voice. A couple of ensigns are playing chess in the corner, and a few of the lads were playing cribbage. Jim suspected it had been poker, but the group had suddenly gone silent and not-so-subtly tried to hide their chips. Betting was technically illegal on the ship, although Kirk would have turned a blind eye to it if they had continued. All in all, it was a lovely break from stewing about his upcoming appointment. Although, as always, his captain's duties seemed to follow him. 

“Hey, Spock.” Jim greets him warmly as the Vulcan walks through the door of the rec room and stands by his side.

“Captain.” Spock leans over. “I wish to speak to you in a more private setting.” Jim nods and they get up and move to the door, and Kirk shoots a wistful look at Nyota as they leave.

“What is it?” He asks as they begin to meander down the hallway.

“I am unsure of how to approach Doctor McCoy.” He admits. “I have done some reading on the act of dying on Earth, but there is no consensus on how to approach someone who is in the end stages of life. What do you do?” He asks. Jim stops, looks at him, starts to reply, then closes his mouth and runs his hand through his hair.

“Look, this isn’t over until it’s over.” He replies. “We’re going to do everything we can to get this issue solved. So if you have any confessions or melodramatic pablum to say to McCoy, I’d zip it, because I plan on having Bones around for a long time, and you don’t want it to come back and haunt you.” He replies. Spock looks at him carefully, and nods.

“I have also read that denial is a common way of dealing with death.” Jim sighs.

“We have a year to figure this out. I don’t like to count my chickens before they hatch.” Jim says finally. “We’ve had missions that we thought were going to be easy that turned out to be cumbersome, trade deals that we thought were going to be difficult that came with no problems. You can never know the future, and I am not going to treat anything as a certainty on this ship.” Spock cocks his head.

“You still have not answered my question, Captain.”

“Well, what do you want to approach him about?” Jim demands impatiently. “Really, do you have some sort of confession of undying love for him? Did you fuck his ex-wife? Run over his dog? Because if it's any of those, you should probably keep to yourself.” Spock gives him a curious look.

“Am I to assume that, unless I have a proclamation that will change the nature of our relationship, that I am not to talk with the doctor? And that if I do, I am also not to speak with him? I am confused as to what your customs are in this situation.” Kirk sighs and rubs at his eyes.

“Look, McCoy isn’t a fan of receiving attention. If there’s anything you feel the urge to say to him, make sure it’s nice. Otherwise, just… don’t make a fuss out of it. That’s what he wants.”

“Vulcans do not ‘make a fuss’.” Spock straightened up.

“Well, you’ll do great then… whatever you do.” Jim claps him on the shoulder. “I’ve got an appointment in an hour, I’m heading up to my quarters.” He shakes his head as he walks away, but smiles in spite of himself. Maybe even Vulcans are a little sentimental.


	4. Blah blah blah blah blah

“Good evening, Captain Kirk.”

“Good evening, Doctor Gleeson.” He responds, nodding at the thin, pale face of a woman. Her hair alternated in patterns of grey and white, and she wore a pair of glasses held together by an almost invisible wire frame. He almost wants to ask her why she chose such an outdated method of correcting her vision, because it made her seem like an old luddite.

“Do you understand why Starfleet has requested that you attend counselling?” She asks. So much for small talk, Jim thinks, but he also appreciates that she gets down to the point quickly.

“I do.”

“Good. Now, tell me about the events that took place with your subordinant, Doctor McCoy.” Normally, Jim hates recounting stories for Starfleet, but he begins and feel obliged to add as much detail as possible, because he isn't exactly sure how this train wreck got started, and perhaps going over the minutiae will help him unravel what exactly when everything fell to shit. She stops him when his story enters the transporter room.

“You didn't explicitly invite Doctor McCoy to be part of the landing party?” She asks. Jim shrugs.

“Well, no. But he's usually part of it, so I can see why he'd assume that he would be this time as well.”

“And what did you say to him?”

“I told him that myself and our first science officer would be the landing party.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said...” Jim smiles unconsciously and snorts a quiet puff of air as he remembers the conversation. “He said we'd never find our way back without him.” Dr. Gleeson makes a few notes on her computer, as she had been for the last few minutes.

“What was your response?”

“I tried to tell him I thought it would be wiser if he stayed on board, but he interrupted me and told me that he wanted to go.”

“And so you agreed?” She didn't say it with an accusing voice, but Jim couldn't help but feel he was being judged anyway.

“Yes, yes I did.”

“And why did you agree to it?” The captain shrugs, and suddenly becomes a little less confident, because he didn't really know the answer.

“Because he said he wanted to go.”

“Does he often question or decisions, or make requests contrary to your orders?” She asks.

“Well, yes. He often gets quite passionate about it as well. But I think that it enhances my leadership. A captain cannot make the best decision if he exists in a vacuum of yes men.”

“Do you often give in to the doctor's requests?” Jim doesn't know what it is about her line of questioning, but he doesn't like it, and it sets him on edge.

“'Give in'?” He replies. “Doctor McCoy doesn't make unreasonable requests, Doctor Gleeson. If it is feasible, as it almost always is, I accommodate it. In fact, I have refused him. One time, I had to send either him or my first science officer in a shuttle to collect data about a phenomenon we saw. It was a dangerous mission, and both officers wanted to go. I chose the first science officer instead of Bones, who was very disappointed.” For some reason, Jim feels proud that he managed to remember a time where Leonard didn't get his way, like he managed to escape some sort of trap that the psychologist was pulling him into.

“Is Bones a nickname for Doctor McCoy?”

“Yes, it comes from 'sawbones', an old term used to describe doctors.” He replies.

“Do you give nicknames to all crew members?” Jim blinks.

“Well, no. He's the only one, actually.” He hadn't considered that before, and the curious part of him wants to ask the doctor if that means something, but doesn't think that showing insecurity would be in his best interest.

“Reading over the reports that Admiral Fitzgerald put together for me, it seems like for the greater part of your mission, you have only had one prescribing medical professional on board. Am I correct?”

“Yes, it's been a bit of an issue with Starfleet.” Kirk acknowledges.

“This isn't to question your command, Captain, but if you only have one physician on board, then why is he usually part of the landing party? This is statistically the most dangerous position for a Starfleet member to be in.” He blinks again, and his mind goes blank.

“Well,” The golden haired man stumbles for words, because he had honestly never thought as to why he always asked McCoy to beam down with him. Hearing it reflected back to him made him realize that, yes, it was a stupid way to risk such a finite resource. “I guess... I mean, considering being part of the landing party is so dangerous, I like the security of having a doctor on the ground.”

“Are members of the ship not trained in first aid response?” She asks.

“Well... yes.” He says, and even though he knows he is showing his hand, he can't help but cross his arms and his legs in a defensive position. Mercifully, she abandons this line of thought.

“Let's return to the events of the day in question. Your landing party, consisting of yourself, Doctor McCoy and your first science officer, are preparing to beam down...?”

“Yes.” Jim continues on with his story, and mercifully goes on uninterrupted until they reach the part where Leonard refuses to return to the ship.

“Why did you command Leonard to return to the ship?” She asks.

“Because he is our doctor. Our only doctor. We need him.” He lies, because he really hadn’t considered that part at all, and he senses another trap.

“It must have been difficult to pull rank on someone that you have such a friendly relationship with.” She comments.

“No.” Jim replies. “It wasn't. I am his captain before his friend. I needed him with me on the ship. As a medical officer.” Her fingers fly over the keyboard for a moment, before she turns back to him.

“Captain Kirk, let's pretend for a moment that he wasn't the only physician on board. That he would have been able to simply transfer his patient duties to another doctor. Say, in this case, he still wished to stay onboard the asteroid with the priestess. What would you have done?”

“I would have done the exact same thing.” Jim doesn't hesitate, and there is a hard edge in his words as he dares her to try to argue with him.

“As his captain?”

“No, as his friend.” Without even realizing it, his voice has gotten louder as he continues to challenge his monitor. “You don't allow your friend to die on an asteroid because he's scared of the future!”

“Even if he has a terminal illness?”

“Even if he has a terminal illness!” Kirk confirms. “Even if he doesn't show it, he's just scared and grasping onto straws, and friends don't let friends ruin the rest of their lives by shacking up with some woman he hardly knows!” She doesn't respond as she types a few more notes into her computer, and Kirk feels himself almost hurt by her refusal to enter into a yelling match. He also supposes that he's failed some sort of psychoanalysis, and he feels frustrated with himself.

“Captain, tell me about your romantic relationships.”

“Come again?” Jim demands, squinting at the screen suspiciously.

“Your romantic relationships. When was the last time you had a romantic or sexual relationship?” Jim sat back in his chair, stunned.

“Doctor, I don't understand what this has to do with the situation.”

“We're not here merely to discuss your issue with your CMO, captain.” She explains patiently, and takes a moment to fully face the camera. “My job is to assess you psychologically, not to play mediator in this situation.” Jim runs his hand through his hair in frustration and discomfort.

“As a captain, my first priority is the ship and crew. I have the occasional... intimate moment with someone that I may meet, but I wouldn't call them relationships. I don't have the time, energy or commitment for something like that right now.”

“Did you have relationships before your contract with Starfleet?”

“Well... no.” He admits. “I mean, I slept with a man twice once. Mostly because I was inebriated the first time we had sex, and didn't recognize him the second time.” Mentally, he gives himself a note to shut the fuck up, because he was babbling, like he had something to prove to her, and he most assuredly did NOT need to prove anything to some Starfleet shill mining him for his innermost thoughts.

"Have you had romantic or sexual relations with members of your crew?"

"No." He says shortly.

“Alright Captain, our time is up.” She announces, and gives him a smile that comes off as false. “We've had a great session today. I'd like to see you at the same time, next week.” Once again, Kirk finds himself confused.

“Why again? Didn't I tell you what you needed to know?”

“I just need to create a fuller profile. Don't worry, this won't become an ongoing commitment.” She assures him. “I will see you next week.” The video feed cuts, and Kirk checks the clock on the wall. 19:50. Very precise.

He lets out a groan as he stretches, trying to release the tension he had been holding throughout the conversation. He still feels irritated, and decides that perhaps the gym is the best way to blow off some steam for now. Perhaps, after Bones is done with his appointment, he can go and commiserate with the grumpy doctor, who he is sure will find her as irritating as he did.

 

“Doctor McCoy, good evening.” Dr. Gleeson greets him as the transmission link comes through.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, doctor.” He drawls, trying to avoid rubbing at his eyes tiredly. He may be dying, but even a dying man could spare some manners.

“Are you tired?” She asks. He nods.

“Yes, but it's just part of the xenopolycythemia. And ship living in general.”

“How do you feel about your diagnosis, doctor?” Leonard knows that if it were any other time, he would have a biting response ready, or at least a carefully worded line to push off any concern. But he was dying now, and he found himself not caring about appearances or hiding secrets anymore, especially not to strangers.

“I don't know, to be honest.” He blows a small breath through a carefully rounded hole in his lips. “I just... everyone dies. It's not exactly a medical secret. I dedicated my entire life to being a doctor, and now that I'm dying, I realize it's all I have. And it's made these feelings bubble up from inside, and I'm just... lonely. I joined Starfleet to get away from them, thinking that maybe some kind of crazy, alien space adventure would make me forget about it all, heal some part of me, give me some purpose. Now I realize it hasn't done any of those things. And I wonder how I'm going to spend the last year of my life, and right now it looks like I'm going to spend it in this tin can, regretting all the things I didn't do, all of the chances I didn't take because I was too afraid. It's... enlightening, in a certain sense.” He sees her quietly making notes on a computer, and feels oddly reassured, like putting it down in a digital format makes it all real, like his memory won't be an endless list of medical tests and readings that no one will give a shit about in ten years. There will be a little human in the file that remains of him.

“Are you afraid of dying?” He pauses, and the psychologist allows his thoughts to roam in the empty space between him and Starbase IV.

“I don't think so.” He says finally. “At least, I'm not afraid of death itself, although I never pictured myself dying in space. At least, I thought if it did happen in space, it would be because the ship exploded, or I was tortured to death by the Klingons. Really, this isn't a horrible alternative. This is going to sound... stupid, but I feel like even at my advanced age, I haven't really lived. I ran to get away from my problems, and I never faced them. In a mental, emotional sort of way, I feel like I'm still twenty. I never really... grew up. I mean, I'm sure you hear this all the time. No one joins Starfleet because they love their lives back on earth. No offence, doctor.” He adds, although he isn't particularly concerned about pissing her off. This earns him a small smile from the grey-haired psychologist, who he notes is actually quite a beautiful woman, especially for her age.

“None taken, doctor. You're right, it is a common theme among many of my patients.” Her face relaxes back into a neutral look as she continues. “What problems did you leave behind on earth?” McCoy chuckles.

“The long version, or would you like me to chop it down in order to save time?”

“We will have as much counselling time as you need, Leonard. You can tell me whatever version you feel comfortable with.” He shrugs to himself, and relays his entire story – his mother, his father, Jocelyn, joining Starfleet, all of the bits and pieces in between. She doesn't interrupt, just makes notes where she feels appropriate, and Leonard is grateful. This is probably as close to a biography as will ever be written about him, even if no one will ever read it.

“You seem to have had more than your fair share of controlling partners.” She notes as he winds up his tale. McCoy laughs.

“Yeah. You can say that again.”

“How do you feel about your captain’s decision to take guardianship of you?” She asks. McCoy pauses.

“Initially, I was angry. Incredibly angry. But now I’m grateful. It wasn’t until I came back that I realized that my absence would have put a huge strain on the medical bay and my nurses. And, for all its ills, I guess the Starship is as close to home as I'm going to get again.”

“Do you think that you would have made a different decision, knowing what you now know?” Leonard sighs.

“I honestly don’t know.”

 

Jim pops by Leonard's quarters at exactly 21:30 with a bottle of kanar that had been gifted to him at some point. He knew the thing had an expiration date, and figured that now was better than never, if it was even still drinkable. Leonard answers his door with a smirk, and waves his captain in.

“This is a bit of a role reversal.” He notes, and for a second Jim takes him in. Bones seems a little more chipper than he has been since the asteroid. His shoulders don't seem as hunched, his face seems smoother, his facial expressions a little more free.

“Well, I figured it was time to return the favour.” Jim replies affably, setting the bottle down on a small table. “Although you have a much better supply of alcohol.”

“I've got to keep my captain as close to the line of sober and happy as he can get, Jim. Doctor's orders.” Kirk laughs as he settles into his chair, although being used to his captain quarters, the CMO's room seems quite a bit smaller, more intimate. He doesn't mind this, although when Bones returns with two glasses and almost smashes the chair into the side of his bed, Jim thinks they could have added a couple of inches of floor space to his room.

Jim takes the kanar and pours it into the glasses, filling them a bit more than was strictly polite, but the doctor doesn't say anything, and Kirk loves it. Once you got past the doctor’s somewhat gruff, dry exterior, he had a way of putting you at ease. Jim never made much time for the rest of the crew, but he always finds time for Leonard, because he needs this camaraderie, his sharp tongue, his thoughtful reflections. Chess with Spock, while always interesting, never quite filled his emotional needs like hanging out with an old country doctor did.

“So, that psychologist... bit of a battle axe, isn't she?” He asks, taking a sip of the kanar, making a face as the acerbic flavour hits his tongue. Leonard grins easily at him, before taking a sip of his own.

“It'll put hair on your chest, Jim, which you sorely need.” Kirk scrunches up his face.

“Not everyone can be as manly as you are Bones.” The doctor chuckles lowly, a deep vibration that seems to flow through the captain and ease the tenseness that he hadn't been able to get out in the gym.

“I kind of liked her, actually.” He muses, looking thoughtfully into the captain's eyes.

“Did we see the same woman?” Jim retorts, some of the frustration ease back into his voice. This earns another chuckle.

“I'm not surprised it isn't your cup of tea.” 

“She asked about my fucking love life Bones. What the hell does she need to know about that for?” He demands.

“Did you regale her with tales of makin' sweet, passionate love to every livin’ bein’ who came onto The Enterprise? I'm surprised she had enough time to see me if she went stompin' around in that sinkhole.”

“Fuck off.” Kirk mutters without any malice, and he gives a crooked smile. “I just didn't want to _overwhelm_ her with my _studliness_.”

“More like make her wonder which alien strain of syphilis makes ya like ya are.” Leonard snorts as he takes another drink.

“So, what did she talk about with you?” Kirk asks, shooting an inquisitive glance across the table. He had been wondering throughout his entire workout exactly what Bones was saying to the woman. Had they discussed him? Had his best friend trash talked him up and down the wall? Despite the fact that Bones had declared he wasn't angry with Jim anymore, he was still a little unsure of whether that constituted forgiveness, or merely a willingness to forget for the time being.

Bones shrugs. “Just asked how I felt about bein' a dyin' man, talked about my childhood and what brought me to Starfleet.” Jim frowns.

“You didn't talk about what happened on the asteroid at all?” The doctor shrugs.

“Not really.”

“Huh.” Kirk looks at his hands for a moment, unsure if he wants the answer to the question he has to ask. “How do you feel about being ill, Bones?” Bones doesn't tense up or glare at Jim, and the captain releases a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding.

“I'm not really afraid of dyin' itself. I just think I didn't do things when I shoulda, and let a lot of opportunities slip by. Like I haven't really been livin' for the last twenty years.” He lets out a laugh, a little more clipped than his easy chuckles. “Dyin' kind of puts that in perspective for me.”

“You're not dying.” Kirk quickly corrects him, as an anxiety swells in his chest, because Bones can't give up that easily, because then he might give up too, and he doesn't know what will happen after that. “We're going to find a cure, and you're going to be fine.”

“How, Jim?” His tone of voice is sharp, and Kirk slouches in his chair and puts up his hands in defeat.

“I don't know how just yet, but I just know that there is a when, and I just have to figure out how to get from now until then.” He wonders exactly how potent that kanar is, because his words don't completely make sense, but they bring him some inner sense of calm. He can feel Bones studying him, and for a moment it looks like the doctor is opening his mouth to say something, but he closes it and settles into a grimace. When he speaks, it's in that same low drawl that Jim loves to hear, and is filled with a thoughtful curiosity.

“Why did you join Starfleet?” Jim looks back, dispassionately.

"My father served with Starfleet, and it always captured my imagination. I decided to follow in his footsteps."

“Is there anything on earth you left behind? Ran from?” This one is harder, and he comfortingly runs his fingers through his hair.

“Boredom. Dad retired, him and mom lived together in a perfect, idyllic little world. I didn't want to sit around on Earth and fall into the marriage, kids and family situation. I didn't leave anything behind, but that's probably why I ran. I ran away from the nothingness.” Leonard smiles approvingly.

“I hear there's a lot of nothingness in Iowa.”

“Like you wouldn't believe.” Jim suddenly downs the rest of his drink, and his body shivers involuntarily as the fire burns down his throat and into his belly. “What about you, doctor? Apparently there aren't a lot of people in your field wanting to be beamed off the planet.” Bones gives a slow, sad smile.

“I was runnin' from people and from myself. I figured that in space, maybe I wouldn't be me. Maybe some other bastard named Leonard McCoy would rise from the corpse of the old one, braver and stronger and better. But, as the old saying goes, wherever you are, there you are.” Jim nods slowly. He hadn't heard that before, but it fits, and he suddenly finds himself hungry. Who was Leonard McCoy? He realized he didn't know much about the man, aside from the fact that he was a divorced doctor with a sharp wit who was the epitome of all things Georgia. It suddenly didn't seem right that Jim had always laid his baggage on the man's porch, but never bothered to find out what his own struggles were. He was a horrible friend, he realized suddenly with a little nausea. No wonder Bones and Spock were his only true friends aboard the ship.

“Tell me about yourself.” Jim demands coolly, then feels awkward, because it sounds like he's interviewing a stranger, or on a date with one, and while he didn't know a lot about the man, they were past such ham fisted statements. “I mean, why did you and Jocelyn get divorced? I don't even know that.” Bones waves off his self-depreciation.

“Don't worry about it. My parents didn't even know why we divorced. I don't like to talk about it.” Jim's eyes shoot up in surprise.

“Wow, not close with your parents, are you?” Bones cocks his head from side to side.

“I mean, perhaps not in a traditional sense, but I knew they always had my best interests in mind.”

“Are they dead?”

“Yep.” He replies, but doesn't offer anything more. Jim lets out a low whistle.

“You're a hard nut to crack.” McCoy smiles softly, tiny wrinkles gathering at the corners of his baby blues, and Jim is entranced.

“All of those things are a long story Jim. I would bore ya out of your mind.”

“I'd like to hear that story, one day.” Jim says softly. Leonard looks a little uncomfortable as he shifts in his seat, and for the first time Jim realizes how shy his best friend is. A shy man, rolled in a sticky layer of grumpy bravado that Kirk never really look the time to uncover. A resolution forms in his mind that now is the time to change that, because for the next year Jim is going to be the best friend that McCoy ever had, and that friendship is going to take them through the next 40, 60, 80 years of their lives.

“Maybe another day. I'm a little tired now.” Bones looks to his half-full glass with a sad little smile.

“Of course.” Jim nods, but he doesn't get up. For the first time, Jim really studies McCoy. His dark hair has uncharacteristically fallen out of place, and he briefly wonders what it would be like to touch it. Would it be soft and silky, or course and dry? His eyes are set in a pale face, the bags underneath them speak to his trials and tribulations as a doctor, but the brightness of his blue irises make him seem younger, give his animated face an added punch when he's smiling or scowling. His neck leads down to a slender body, with wide shoulders narrowing into a trim waist. His toned arms make lazy hills until they reach his hands. His hands – they have wide palms, with long but meaty fingers. Not the hands that one would think of a surgeon, but he's seem McCoy do the impossible with them, and they suddenly seem like sacred objects. For a moment Jim wants to hold them in his, feel the dexterity and strength, wants to feel them wrapped about his cock as Leonard whispers filthy things into his ears with that burning southern drawl...

Jim feels himself jerk back to reality, and finds that McCoy is studying him just as intensely, and a heat rises into his cheeks.

“Well, I should go, then.” He says abruptly and stands almost as a reaction. He can feel himself growing hard, and needs to get away from... whatever _this_ is before Bones thinks... whatever he is going to think. His companion nods and lets out a yawn, and _those hands_ are just _there_ and...

He rushes for the door.

“Jim.” McCoy calls before the door can fully open.

“Yeah?” He asks, back to the doctor because he can't risk turning around.

“Come back any time.” In spite of his panic, he smiles. Yes, he could come back, with some more wine, and perhaps some lubricant and...

“Sure Bones.” He rushes into the hallway, praying that he doesn't run across anyone before he can make it to the safety of his captain's quarters.

 _Maybe THIS is why you don't have any friends_. He can't help but think to himself, and makes a vow to not let them next chance to get laid slip past him.


	5. Tholian Web

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so this is a retelling of Tholian Web (Season 3, Episode 9) so it may make more sense if you're familiar with the episode. Hopefully, even if you're not, you can follow along reasonably enough. Song doesn't belong to me, it is the property of Ray Charles.

When Jim arrives on alpha shift, he receives a new mission from Starfleet. Much to his chagrin, it does not involve any medical research labs. Nevertheless, the Enterprise is flying out towards the last known location of the _U.S.S Defiant_ to either save the ship and it’s crew, or perform a post-mortem on what exactly went wrong.

“Mr. Spock, eyes on the computer recordings. Lieutenant Uhura, keep all communications open and watch all frequencies. Mr. Sulu, warp 6. Set the coordinates for the last known location of _The Defiant_. And everyone, keep your eyes on the skies.” He instructs, with several ‘aye aye’s echoing across the bridge. Normally, Kirk would have loved a call like this. Either he would be able to save the day, or get embroiled in some strange space mystery. Right now, however, he had a mystery that was too big to chew on by himself, and he wasn’t eager to add another crew’s issues on top of that.

Then, McCoy steps off the lift, two cups of coffee in hand, and his heart catches in his throat.

“Bones.” He says a little breathlessly, and he can almost feel his eyes dilating with pleasure. “Good to see you.”

“I figured without me bringing you your coffee you’d probably be going through withdrawals.” The doctor replies, handing the cup off to him as he takes his usual place by the arm of the captain’s chair. Kirk snorts.

“I _am_ capable of finding the canteen by myself.”

“Yeah, but somehow you manage to make that reconstituted crap into a latte with all that cream and sugar you put into it. Someone has to stop you from getting diabetes.” Jim looks woefully down at his black coffee.

“And you’ve sucked away the joy from my morning. Don’t humans need a little fat to have proper brain function?” He demands.

“Well, when they need to widen the captain’s chair, don’t come cryin’ to me.” Bones replies. Out of the corner of his eye, Jim sees Chekov raising his eyes at Sulu, who smiles and shakes his head in response.

“Now where is this thing headed?” Bones asks, staring at the screen before them. Kirk fills him in, and the doctor sighs.

“Makes you reflect a little on your own mortality, doesn’t it?”

“I make a point of not thinking about that.” Kirk replies.

“Well, I need you down in sickbay when you get a moment.” Jim nods.

“We’ll have a while before we find _The Defiant_. Mr. Spock, you have the conn.”

 

McCoy hates this, the fact that he has a medical degree and is reduced to asking permission to treat himself. Who had thought that trying to get laid would be so disastrous? But he isn’t going to risk stepping on any more toes. Part of him wonders why he is even bothering trying to play nice. It isn’t like he’s going to be around to see the repercussions to his medical career.

The larger part of him knows exactly why. He still feels that shame for abandoning his post, making life harder on Jim and Christine, and he doesn’t want to leave a trail of debris to clean up after he’s gone. Most of all, there is a large part of him, hidden beneath his grumpy exterior, that still believes in magic and Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy, and has an endless amount of hope. Jim doesn’t help ground that part of him, and McCoy doesn’t know whether he’s thankful or irritated by it. He doesn’t think his friend is ever guided by mystical powers of the Easter Bunny, but more by his own cocksureness. If it can be done, and often even if it can’t, Jim Kirk will be the one doing it. Making plans, rounding up the troops, using his quick wit to ensure that everything went according to schedule. It’s what made him an excellent captain.

“So, why do you need me in sickbay?” He asks as they get into the lift.

“I need you to sign off on my treatment orders.” Jim looks surprised.

“What for?” McCoy cocks an eyebrow.

“Have you forgotten you have protective custody of me?” For a second, his friend looks stunned.

“Oh. Right. Well, I guess… you’re right.” He lets out half a laugh, looking dumbfounded. “It just seems… stupid that I have to approve your treatment orders, when I know nothing about any of it.”

“I won’t argue with that, captain.” They exit the lift and walk towards the sickbay, where McCoy produces a PADD from his office and thrusts it at his friend. Jim scrolls through the lengthy document, eyebrows furrowed as he tries to understand.

“Can you explain what all of this means?” McCoy doesn’t want to, pride and irritability bubbling under his skin, and his jaw clenches unconsciously. But he knows that, despite everything that has happened, Jim isn’t doing it to be pedantic or cruel. He’s just worried. And perhaps, for once, it wouldn’t be bad to let someone worry about him.

“There’s a few basic prescriptions in there. Xenopolycythemia causes increased production of red blood cells, which makes the blood thick and prone to clotting, which could possibly result in a stroke or a heart attack. There is a high dose aspirin order in there to prevent that from happening. Hydroxyurea to slow down the production of red blood cells. A couple of PRN orders as well. I have some antihistamines in case I become itchy, diphenhydrinate for nausea, midodrine in case of orthostatic hypotension – dizziness upon standing.” He amends. “Then there are some treatment orders. Blood draws of half a litre once a week. A weekly ultrasound to see if there are any blood clots circulating. I’ve also thrown in some orders in case of emergency so that Christine can follow them.” Jim nods.

“You promise there isn’t any sort of suicide drug in here?” He asks, grinning with a warmth that Leonard finds hard to look at. He rolls his eyes.

“No Jim. No suicide drugs.”

“Alright.” Jim signs off on the orders.

“But Jim…” McCoy is used to giving full and exact information to people about their diagnosis and possible complications, and the words come out automatically, but wishes he hadn’t. It’s not something Jim can control, and perhaps he doesn’t need to know about it.

“Yes?” He has his captain gaze on the doctor, a commanding look of curiosity, and McCoy just shrugs internally. He seemed to be on a roll with brutal honesty lately, so why stop now?

“Part of the disease is that it can cause enlargement of the spleen, which helps filter blood. If my spleen ruptures… well, I’m the only surgeon on board and…” he fumbles uncomfortably for his words. “In case that happens, it’s deadly, and I’ve included palliative orders. Not that they’re long, once the spleen goes, it can be over in a matter of hours.” Jim’s eyes harden, and McCoy swallows.

“Well, do everything you can to ensure that doesn’t happen.” They lock eyes, and although the doctor maintains the contact, he swallows hard one again. This seemed to be happening a lot lately – locking eyes, penetrative stares, gazes that linger a few moments too long. He wasn't used to being the centre of the captain's attention, but he was beginning to see how completely seductive the man truly was. An unyielding confidence, belied by a soft sense of humour. Jim may have physically been shorter by about an inch or two, but somehow McCoy always felt like the man was towering above him, a larger than life figure, even in his moments of doubt and uncertainty. It was no wonder women and men fell at his feet. 

“Also, Bones, have you had breakfast today?” He asks. McCoy scowls at this.

“I don’t eat breakfast, Jim, you know that. It’s a bunch of poppycock promoted by the cereal companies about ‘being the most important meal of the day’ so they can shove their diabetes-causing sugar cubes down the throats of impressionable young children.” He even makes the air quotes with him fingers.

“Well, I order you to start eating breakfast.” Jim grins a lazy, precocious smile. McCoy’s scowl flattens out into a look of disgust, and the captain’s look turns sheepish.

“I know you’re the doctor, but the one thing I do know about medicine is that no one ever got better by not eating. Just, give it a thought, will you?”

“Captain Kirk to Bridge. Captain Kirk to Bridge.” They both jerk at Spock’s voice.

“Well, that’s my cue.” Kirk mutters as he strides out of the sickbay.

 

“Captain, space appears to be… breaking up. There is no known phenomenon to explain these readings.”

“Capt’in, we’re losin’ power in tha warp engines.”

“Keptin, vizuel detection of an obh-ject dead ahead.”

Well, the last one he could at least do something about. He stands by Chekov, looking into the screens as a bright object, fading and then reappearing, bobs in the distance.

“Spock?” He asks.

“Fascinating.”

“Explain.” The captain barks over his shoulder, unable to look away from the unidentified flying object.

“There is virtually no sensor contact. No mass analysis, no radiation. We see it, but our sensors indicate it is not there.”

“I’ve been trying to hail them on all frequencies, but there is no response sir.” Uhura advises. Sulu slows down as the object comes into focus, and that is when Kirk knows they’ve found what they’re looking for.

“Mr. Spock, Mr Chekov, come with me.” He orders. He holds down a button on the conn. “Doctor McCoy, please bring the medical tricorder to the transporter room.” Taking his finger off the button, he barks “Mr. Scott, you’ve got the conn.”

He and the other two quickly don their gear, suits designed to prevent contamination and provide oxygen in case the support systems on The Defiant are gone. The team are just finishing up as Bones enters, carrying his tricorder with a grim look on his face.

“So, who are you goin’ to get to read the damn thing?” He asks, handing it over to Kirk, who experimentally presses a few buttons.

“Well, it can’t be that hard, can it?” He asks. “I’m sure Spock can do it.” Chekov looks confused.

“Docter McCoy,” he asks hesitantly. “You vill not be part of de pahr-ty?”

“Negatory, kid.” He grumbles. “Too much work to catch up on in sickbay.” The Russian looks even more confused, and turns his helmeted head towards Kirk.

“But keptin!” He exclaims. “Vat if someone, dey need medical attention?”

“We will beam them aboard the ship.” Jim doesn’t look at the Russian as he speaks, which means this is not a topic conversation that he intends to expand on. “The three of us are transporting down now.” The kid knows not to ask any more questions, so he simply stands in his transporter spot, and sends what can only be described as a hurt, puppy dog look to McCoy as they beam out of sight. McCoy smiles in spite of himself. He likes the young bastard.

 

“Mr. Scott, can you ask Doctor McCoy to come to the conn?” Jim’s voice is all static, and just put together enough to hear. Scottie shrugs and motions to Leonard, who has been hanging around the bridge in case he was needed. He maneuvers around Scottie’s right arm and fumbles with the communicator.

“McCoy here.” He grumpily mutters into the microphone.

“Bones, I’ve got some readings, but I don’t know what they mean.” McCoy sighs and rolls his eyes.

“Of course you don’t, Jim. Are they human readings? Alive or dead?”

“Dead humans. It looks like everyone on board has just… killed each other.”

“If it can wait, just gather as many readings as you can and I’ll sort them out when you get back.”

“Alright. Kirk out.”

 

The next thing he knows, there’s some sort of transporter malfunction, and the ship is apparently being torn inside out by _The Defiant_ , and Spock and Chekov are back but Kirk and the other ship are nowhere in sight. They have over two hours before they might be able to find the captain again, assuming he’s still alive, he has a psychotic Russian kid strapped to a biobed, and oh, of course, there’s some alien spaceship jackass who wants The Enterprise off of his lawn ASAP.

“Nurse, can you run this sample for analysis?” He absentmindedly hands the red bottle off to Chapel. A sudden wave of dizziness hits him, and he takes the moment to extend his arms and lean over the counter. A mysterious wave of aggression. Angry Tholians. Jim, lost in space, waiting for interphase to happen before the crew can rescue him.

What if it doesn’t work? A busy part of his mind asks him. What if Jim is gone forever? McCoy closes his eyes. He can’t think like that. If Jim can have hope for him, he can return the favour. Plus, on a more selfish note, if Jim truly is dead, Leonard doesn’t think that he can go on. He doesn’t have that delightful arrogance the captain has, that says that the world will bend to his will if he can outsmart it. Plus, who else in the world does he have that is even worth staying alive for?

Well, he has to last at least long enough to figure out an antidote to this interspace madness. And by then, Jim will be back, and McCoy won’t have to think of ways to kill himself while creating the least amount of clean-up for everyone. Too bad everyone shits their pants when they die.

“Doctor McCoy!” Christine shouts, but his reflexes are too slow, his brain too hazed, and before he knows it, he’s crumbling.

 

When he wakes up, he’s laying in a biobed, and his knees and head hurt a little, but he has so much aspirin flowing through his veins he doesn’t notice the ache too much. He looks around, and finds Christine gazing at his orderly, who is strapped down on another biobed. She glances over at him, and relief flows from her as she rushes over.

“Doctor McCoy, I’m so glad you’re alright!” She says.

“What happened?” He asks as he sits up.

“Olsen has been taken by this space madness too.” She says solemnly. “We’ve continued running tests in your absence, but nothing has shown to be effective. Olsen has the same cerebral nervous system issues that Chekov showed.” He nods, and lets out a heavy sigh.

“What we need then in some sort of central nervous system disruptor that doesn’t come with those horrible side effects like paralysis and cessation of breath and cardiovascular function.” He mutters. “Perhaps an endocrine disruptor that will take the edge off the ‘fight or flight’ mode.” There is something on the tip of his tongue, an idea so crazy it might just work, but he allows himself to sit on it for a second.

“Christine.” He says finally. “A theragen derivative.” She frowns.

“But doctor, that’s toxic!”

“I know, nurse.” He says shortly. “That’s why I want a derivative. If we can create a derivative that doesn’t completely kill the central nervous system, that might be our ticket. But we obviously don’t keep any in medical stores. See if our botanists have any.” He hopes that perhaps they have some lying around for use as an insecticide.

“Yes sir.” Christine replies. She almost goes straight out of the door of sick bay, before she suddenly stops. She turns back and steps close to Leonard, her voice going a notch lower in a conspiratorial tone. “I thought you should know, Mr. Spock is about to begin a funeral for the captain.”

“Is he dead?” He demands, feeling a wave of nausea come over him. Christine’s face twitches.

“We haven’t retrieved him, and so I suppose with this, yes, he is officially dead.” Leonard stares, unwilling to comprehend.

“I’ve… I’ve got to go.” He mutters, standing up.

“Of course, doctor.” McCoy ambles his way towards the lift, not looking back.

 

When he arrives, he sees Spock standing at the podium, and the Vulcan gracefully rushes down to intercept him.

“Doctor, do you have any reports on your lab work?” McCoy scowls.

“Spock, it isn’t a communicable disease. It’s the space that’s doing it to us. Everyone is suffering from molecular changes in the cerebral nervous system, increasing agitation. We need to get out of this space. And what the hell are you doing, having this funeral?” He demands.

“We have attempted to find the captain again during an interphase period, doctor, and that was not successful. The next interphase won’t be for another hour and 15 minutes, at which point the air in the captain’s oxygen canister will be long gone.”

“So you’re giving up?” McCoy hisses, squeezing his hands together behind his back. “Let me ask you, Vulcan, did Jim give up on you when you had your fucking brain stolen? Because I think it’s happened again.” Spock’s face doesn’t exactly scowl back, but some bit of neutrality is stolen from it.

“We can either get out of this space, or continue a fruitless search for the captain, doctor. You can’t have both.” The more times Spock refers to him as ‘doctor’ the more it means that he’s gotten underneath his skin, and normally that would bring a small satisfaction to McCoy, but he doesn’t have the energy to give a shit about their sparring this time.

“That’s a great way to repay a friend, captain.” He turns to go and sit down in the front row beside Scottie, glaring at his newly instated captain. Spock almost glares back, then steps up to the podium.

Spock drones on about Kirk’s bravery, retelling the story of his alleged death, but McCoy can’t bring himself to listen. He holds his head in his hands, and he knows the reason that he never wanted to become a captain was that he wasn’t cut out for this sort of decision making, but he can’t help but hate Spock at the moment. He doesn’t know if it’s the space having this effect, or his own inner turmoil bubbling over, but he knows if he listens too much he’ll wind up going over to the Vulcan and punching him. Through his mind, the mantra runs What would Jim do? But he doesn’t know, because he’s not Jim, and all he wants is to run to Jim’s quarters and drink some crappy alien alcohol and feeling the warmth of his hand on his shoulder.

Suddenly, he realizes that Kirk is the only person who consistently touches him on the ship. He doesn’t have that familiar, comfortable relationship with anyone else, and oh god he is going to live the 363 days he has left without ever being touched again and die alone and unloved and-

“Attention!” Scottie calls. The eulogy is over, and everyone is standing. He quickly stands up for the moment of silence, waiting until the Scotsman announces “Dismissed” to leave. He feels a hand on his shoulder, and for a moment he fantasizes that it’s his captain, and he’ll turn around and see his honey eyes and devious smile, and he’ll say ‘Gotcha Bones!’ But instead it’s Scottie, who looks at him with concern.

“Docter, yah got quite tha shiner righ’ there.” Scottie points to his own forehead, and Bones self-consciously slaps his own, and feels a mild bit of discomfort. “Are ya alrigh’?”

“Yes, Scottie, thank you.” He says gruffly. “Just an incident in sickbay.” He turns his attention to Spock, locking eyes with the former first officer, and walks to the podium.

“There is a duty to be performed in the captain’s quarters that requires our presence.” He says.

“It can wait doctor.” He replies briskly. “My duties-“

“Don’t fight me on this Spock.” He says impatiently. “He left us a tape that we are to review if he is ever declared dead.”

“We both have other duties to attend to. It can wait.”

“Are you afraid it’s going to change your present status?” He challenges, stepping in front of the Vulcan. “The captain’s last order is top priority, and you will honour that order before you take over.” He begins to feel dizzy again as rage overtakes him, but he’ll be damned if he shows any weakness in front of Spock at this particular moment. Spock raises an eyebrow, but McCoy knows that he has just won, because he’s been doing this for over two years and he just knows, and they take a tension-filled walk over to Jim’s quarters.

Neither of them speaks until Jim’s face shows up on the screen, the sound of his voice filling the room. Leonard’s brain suddenly feels warm with a rush of dopamine and serotonin, a gleeful manicness erasing all the tension and ill temper he had been feeling. He wonders if this is what addicts felt like when they got a hit, rolling on waves of euphoria, the sudden sense that everything was alright. That is when he realizes how truly fucked he is.

_A dying man has a crush on his dead captain._

The absurdity of his Shakespearean tragedy makes him want to cry.

 

“Bones, Spock.” He greets them warmly. “Since you are playing this tape, we will assume that I am dead, that the tactical situation is critical, and both of you are locked in mortal combat. It means, Spock, that you have control of the ship and are probably making the most difficult decisions of your career. I can offer only one small piece of advice, for whatever it's worth. Use every scrap of knowledge and logic you have to save the ship. But temper your judgement with intuitive insight. I believe you have those qualities, but if you can't find them in yourself, seek out McCoy. Ask his advice. And if you find it sound, take it. Bones, you've heard what I've just told Spock. Help him if you can. But remember he is the Captain. His decisions must be followed without question. You might find that he is capable of human insight and human error. They are most difficult to defend, but you will find that he is deserving of the same loyalty and confidence each of you have given me. Take care.” And the tape is over.

There is an awkward silence, as the Vulcan stares at McCoy expectantly, and McCoy stares at the ceiling, wondering how his life became so fucked up so quickly.

“Spock,” He mutters. “I’m sorry. I’m… irrationally angry. I should go back to work.” Without look at him, the doctor walks out of the door. He hears the light footsteps so characteristic of the Vulcan follow him, but he knows it isn’t meant threateningly. They were merely headed for the same lift.

“Mister Spock!” He hears Uhura cry before she bashes into his chest. He reaches to the wall on his side to steady himself and her, as she looks up at him with a wild pleading he could have never imagined coming from her face. “Doctor McCoy! I saw him! Captain Kirk!”

“Lieutenant Uhura, that is quite illogical.” Spock says harshly, looking as perturbed as McCoy has ever seen him. He realizes that the space is beginning to affect the Vulcan’s temperament as well.

“Where did you see him?” Bones demands, looking into her passionate brown eyes as he grasps her biceps.

“In my mirror!” She cries, and for a moment, he feels his hopes dash from his swelling heart right down through the floors below them. Uhura’s losing it too.

“I am sure that your grief is causing you to hallucinate.” Spock looks at him, and McCoy knows that is a silent order to medically intervene. Instead, he studies her more, and even though with her cries and wild look she reminds him of every psychiatric patient he has seen, there is something there he can’t dismiss.

“I believe you.” He says softly, and she stops her erratic movements, and looks almost lovingly into his eyes.

“You know.” She says, and he nods. She suddenly frowns as she takes a closer look at the doctor.

“Doctor, you have a large bruise on your forehead! Are you alright?” She demands.

“I’m fine.” He grumbles, and makes a mental note to invest in some of that crap that women smear on their faces even out their complexion. Or whatever it did.

“Doctor, I find it quite improbable that, if Captain Kirk were still alive, the first place he would be spotted is in the mirror of Ms. Uhura’s private quarters.” Spock snaps.

“Spock,” McCoy pulls himself away from Uhura’s grasp and stands almost chest-to-chest with the Vulcan, gazing up at him with a calm defiance. “Remember that bit our captain mentioned about ‘intuitive insight’ and ‘if you can’t find it yourself, seek out McCoy’?” He asks. “This is it. It isn’t logical, and by every medical means she’s exhibiting typical space psychosis. But I think she really saw Captain Kirk. He is alive. And I can’t prove that she’s telling the truth, but my intuition says she is.” Spock stares at him, like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t.

“The next interphase is in 20 minutes. I will prepare the transport room.”

 

McCoy stops by sick bay to check up on Christine, and he is impressed when he can see four beakers on the table in front of him.

“You have the derivatives already?” He asks. Her face is lit up with pride as she nods, and she points a finger to the second one to his right.

“I think it’s that one doctor. It should be able to prevent degradation of the central nervous system without paralyzing it.” McCoy nods, and looks at Christine with a new respect.

“This is quite incredible nurse. I never realized that your chemistry skills were so superb. Do you have any idea of how much to dose out?” He asks quizzically, because figuring that out could be a very dangerous game.

“I tried a millilitre orally. I feel great!” Christine giggles, and McCoy just stares at her, and wonders if she’s incredibly brave or if she’s been afflicted by the space madness as well.

“Nurse, remind me to never cross you.” This earns him a frown, and she takes off a glove and hits him with it.

“I want a millilitre of this intravenously or orally given to every crew member on the ship.” He orders. “If given intravenously, dilute each half millilitre with five millilitres of normal saline. If given orally… mix it with alcohol. I think we all need it.”

 

McCoy runs up to the bridge after helping Christine synthesize enough of the derivative for the entire crew, and brings a flask of it mixed with some cheap vodka mixed in for the bridge. As predicted, the crew, who were happy to be able to drink while on shift, excitedly shotgunned their glasses.

“This is terrible vodka.” Sulu notes, frowning at his glass. “You’re lucky that Chekov is still in sick bay with interspace madness, or else you’d get an earful.”

“The kid is twelve, he doesn’t even know what quality is yet.” McCoy rebuffs him. Spock eyes his own glass, looking from Leonard to the drink and back suspiciously.

“What is it?” He asks.

“A theragen derivative.” He declares proudly. The rest of the bridge suddenly look stricken.

“I just drank a nerve gas?” Uhura demands.

“A derivative. It’s only toxic if you’re exposed to actual theragen. This stuff is harmless.” He assures her. Uhura still looks murderous, and McCoy makes a mental note to avoid her until her cocktail kicks in.

Spock himself still looks unsure, so Bones grins and raises his own glass before swallowing it all in one gulp. Giving in, the Vulcan does the same.

And then suddenly everyone can see Kirk. He appears on the screen in front of the helmsmen, gasping for air in his suit, face terse with a sheen of sweat on it as he fights for every breath, and McCoy feels sickened. Dying of asphyxiation wasn’t the most painful way to go, but it was brutal to watch the despair and desperation on someone’s face.

Not that Kirk was going to die.

“Get ‘im in, I’ll get the triox!” He shouts as he runs off of the bridge and down to sick bay to collect his hypospray.

“Christine!” He shouts as he barges into the sick bay. “Jim is going to be transported back soon, and he’s going to need care right in the transporter room! I need you there!” He grabs the trioxide compound and runs back out of the room, not checking to see if she’s following. She catches up to him at the lift, and gives another gigantic smile.

 

When he sees the particles begin to stream through the transporter, Leonard prays to a God he has been ambivalent about that this time they have him. Slowly, in what seems like hours, the particles take the form of a man in a space suit, colour slowly bleeding in and the rough edge of the light give way to the hard edges of matter. When Captain Kirk emerges and falls to the floor, Leonard rushes to his side, and kneels beside him to deftly stab his suit and allows the trioxide compound to work its magic. He looks Jim over carefully for signs of cyanosis as Christine pulls off his helmet.

Ever unconquerable, Jim gives him a feeble smile, and blindly puts his hand on Leonard’s thigh, and even if it’s through a space suit McCoy doesn’t think he’s ever felt anything as amazing as that touch.

“Bones…” He says, and the doctor doesn’t know if he’s confused and spouting words due to hypoxia or if he wants to say something more but can’t catch his breath, but he grins broadly back.

“Welcome home, Jim.”

 

“Bones.” The captain has been entertaining the bridge with tales of his three hours left floating in space. From anyone else it would be the most ennui-inducing verbal diarrhea that the ship had ever seen. From Jim, it was like poetry, and the crew hung onto his every word. But now he was captain again, assuming command in his chair, and he had to get down to serious business.

“What happened to your face?” He demands, reaching up from his chair to cup the side of Leonard’s jaw. McCoy wants to rub into that palm, like some desperate teenage girl, but he merely grinds his teeth instead.

“I fell.” He replied. Jim withdraws his hand, once again looking concerned.

“I see.” There is a pause, and he asks “Did you get into a fight with Spock?” McCoy rolls his eyes.

“Please Jim. It isn’t like we’re a couple of brawlers who are throwing out punches every time you’re not here to police us.” Jim smirks, eyes warm and full of mirth.

“Did you get along?”

“Of course. We started a fire in your quarters and roasted marshmallows and sang ‘kumbayah’. We had a great time here, you should float off into space more often.” Jim’s smile widens, and his hand reaches out again to lightly stroke the side of Leonard’s face, gazing at him with a tenderness no one has ever looked at him with before. McCoy’s stomach lifts into his chest and his heart hammers like a woodpecker, and he wants to look around to see if anyone else is watching them, but he can’t tear his frightened eyes away from the sincerity of James Kirk.

“I missed you, Bones.” He says softly. And every single wall around Leonards heart melts into those hazel eyes, that warm palm, and he feels so naked and he thinks he might die from the shame or explode or something terribly undignified. There is equal fear and longing in his eyes as he replies.

“I missed you more than you will ever know.” Jim smiles again, and rubs his thumb against Leonard’s jaw, and Bones is torn between wanting to kiss him, run away and hoping that they could last forever in this moment.

Eventually, Kirk breaks his gaze and drops his hand, and the brunet feels like the sun has disappeared behind the clouds. The captain twists in his chair to face the communications officer.

“Uhura, sing something.” He demands. She looks pleased, if not puzzled.

“What would you like me to sing?” Nyota asks.

“Something about coming home.” She thinks for a moment, and then her melodic voice fills the bridge.

_“Georgia, Georgia,_  
The whole day through  
Just an old sweet song  
Keeps Georgia on my mind.” 

Bones finds himself swaying, and looks around to the rest of the crew, who seem to be lost in the slow tones of Uhura’s singing. Kirk is smiling, seemingly lost in thought. Spock, as usual, is ramrod straight, but he knows the first officer well enough to realize he is also enraptured.

_“I said Georgia_  
Georgia  
A song of you  
Comes as sweet and clear  
As moonlight through the pines  
Other arms reach out to me  
Other eyes smile tenderly  
Still in peaceful dreams I see  
The road leads back to you  
I said Georgia,  
Ooh Georgia, no peace I find  
Just an old sweet song  
Keeps Georgia on my mind  
Other arms reach out to me  
Other eyes smile tenderly  
Still in peaceful dreams I see  
The road leads back to you  
Georgia,  
Georgia,  
No peace, no peace I find  
Just this old, sweet song  
Keeps Georgia on my mind  
I said just an old sweet song,  
Keeps Georgia on my mind.” 

Bones thinks that he would feel homesick, if there was anything of value left in Georgia to return to. But it stills up a certain melancholy about his youth, and he finds he wants to hold onto this feeling, the bittersweet memories of years gone by. He turns to leave the bridge, and Sulu calls out after him.

“Goodnight, Georgia.”


	6. Young Foolish Men Who Become Foolish Old Ones

“Come in.” Bones shouts when someone rings his buzzer. When he sees the green-blooded hobgoblin, he raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Spock, why the reason for the late night visit?” He asks.

“It is only 19:00 hours.” Spock replies. “Hardly a ‘late night visit’.” McCoy rolls his eyes and leans against the wall, eyeing his friend suspiciously.

“Well?” He demands. Spock fixes his with a gaze.

“I have been remiss in addressing your health issues, doctor. I feel that now is the time.” McCoy frowns deeply.

“’Addressing my health issues’?” He parrots. “Do you have some sort of Vulcan healing voodoo that is going to cure me?”

“No.” The green man admits. “But I believe it is custom on earth to provide increased emotional support to a friend when they are terminally ill. I wish to participate in this ritual.” Bones sighs and motions for Spock to sit down at this table, and the Vulcan takes the hint.

“Look, Earth doesn’t really have a codified system for what anyone is supposed to do in this situation.” Bones clarifies, taking his own seat. “Some people refuse to address it, some people just drift away from the dying person, and some become overly enmeshed in the sick person’s life. I don’t know what Vulcans do in this situation, although I imagine there probably isn’t a lot of crying. Just… don’t do anything you wouldn’t do normally.” He replies. Spock looks at him, and for a moment Bones detects a slight twinge of sadness on his features.

“Forgive me then, for it is highly illogical, and something that is never done on Vulcan, but I have this compulsion to tell you something.” Leonard grins.

“Ah, the old human comin’ out in you.” He teases. “We often wait until death to express things we should have said long before the time. What do you need to say?” Spock’s hesitation belied a small discomfort, but his gaze is steady and almost warm as he speaks

“I have enjoyed our verbal sparring. You are very empathetic, kind and in all respects a great healer. During my time on _The Enterprise_ I have come to appreciate the emotional, illogical side of humans, and I can enjoy your… intuititiveness. I hold you in high esteem, and when you die, not only shall the ship and Starfleet lose an invaluable resource, but I will have lost a great friend.” McCoy studies the Vulcan’s steadfast face, feeling a wave of awe rising in him.

“Thank you, Spock.” He says finally. “I like you too. And when I’m dead, I assume I’ll just be gone, but if there is some part of me, floating around up there, it’s going to miss you too.”

“That is illogical, doctor. I am sure there will be no part of you that exists after your body dies.” McCoy scowls.

“I was tryin’ to be nice, you green-blooded computer.” He mutters. “Shoulda known better.” There is a moment of silence, and Spock reaches out to but his hand over McCoy’s.

“If you are in need of assistance in any way, please do not be too prideful to ask for it. There is no logic in suffering when it is avoidable.” Bones wants to crack a joke, ease the tension, but he merely nods and swallows his defensiveness.

“Of course.”

 

  
This time, it’s Bones that brings the alcohol to Jim’s quarters. His face lights up as the door opens to reveal McCoy, with a bottle and two glasses on a platter because he is organized like that.

“Ah, what have you brought me this time?” He asks, waving his friend over to the table.

“Saurian brandy. It should be smoother on your tongue than the kanar.” McCoy replies, setting his tray down and pouring the southern drink.

“Right.” He takes his own seat, and glances at McCoy’s forehead again.

“So, how exactly did you get that bruise?” Bones scowls. “Hey, it’s very distracting! It looks like you’ve got a third eye or something.”

“While you were gone, the crew suffered physiological and psychological effects from the interspace. They got aggressive. My orderly tackled me, and I went down.” He rolls up one of his pant legs to reveal equally an equally painful looking bruise on his knee. “The aspirin makes me bruise like a peach.” Kirk whistles.

“You are going to be one sorry looking peach, hanging around on this ship.”

“Don’t remind me.” McCoy grumbles, taking a sip of his drink. Jim likes his on the rocks, but doesn’t feel motivated enough to get any ice from the synthesizer, so he sits and takes his own drink and gazes at his CMO.

“You know, I was thinking, while I was floating around in space-“

“God forbid.” Leonard mutters, and Kirk rolls his eyes.

“I’m trying to be serious, Bones.” His friend shuts up, and looks at him expectantly.

“I’ve never worried about you. You’ve never given me any reason to.” Leonard flushes, suddenly looking shy again, and normally this is where Jim moves his move – gentle caresses, disingenuous poetry extoling his beauty, coming behind his conquest and whispering soft nothings into his ears while nibbling on his neck… the explorer in him wants to do it, wants to see if McCoy will be soft and supple beneath his hands, or as iron-willed and unyielding as he always is. But he pushes away the thoughts, because there is a time and a place for everything, and Jim can be as patient as the situation requires. Plus, it’s probably incredibly inappropriate to start banging your best friend in his last days of life. Probably.

“When I shang haied you off of that asteroid, it was a selfish move.” Kirk continues. “I don’t want to say that I didn’t care about what you were going through, because I did and I do. But really, I just couldn’t stand the thought that you would choose to leave _The Enterprise_. To leave me. I couldn’t believe that you would give up hope that easy, that you didn’t have any faith that I would come through for you. I wanted to show you that you were wrong. It was an ego driven decision.” McCoy’s face is impassive at Jim’s not-quite apology, trailing his fingers around the rim of the glass. Kirk takes another drink from his own as the brunet formulates his words.

“Do you remember the story of _Pandora’s Box_ , Jim?” He finally asks. It’s not what the captain was expecting, but he nods.

“Sure. Pandora opens up the jar that contains every calamity that had ever inflicted the human race, dooming us all to our current miserable state.”

“And at the bottom of the jar, hope remained.” Bones replies, and finally looks up wistfully at Jim. “I always thought that the Greeks really knew what they were talkin’ about with that story. There’s this misconception that hope is some powerful, benevolent feeling, that as long as you have hope, great things will come. And perhaps sometimes, that is true. But it’s also this destructive, horrible force, that makes you cling to things longer than you should, keeps you stagnant and dumb in situations where it would do you much better to move on. I’ve never cared much for hope.” He smiles a small, sad smile. “But you make me hopeful. And sometimes, I don’t know if it’s good or bad.”

“You’re right.” Kirk agrees. “Hope can be an incredibly destructive force. But sometimes, it’s all you’ve got.”

“What do you hope for, then?” Leonard asks. Jim grins.

“I don’t rely on hope. It’s just… there’s a picture in my mind of what the outcome is, and I know I’m going to get there. I think of it as the future is already assured, it’s just my job to figure out how to navigate from now until then.” McCoy smiles softly again, the upturned corners of his lips taking Jim’s heart with them.

“To be the great James Tiberius Kirk, the best captain Starfleet has ever had.” Bones raises his glass in a toast, and Jim smiles easily, clinking their glasses.

“It’s a lonely position.” He says, somewhat somberly. McCoy snorts dismissively.

“I think the parade of men and women streaming out of your quarters would beg to disagree.”

“There’s a difference between physical intimacy and finding someone who makes you feel less alone.” Jim replies. McCoy shrugs.

“I’ve never really known the difference. Probably why all of my relationships went belly up.”

“Bones.” Kirk’s face is serious. “Are you a stage five clinger?” His friend laughs.

“Yep. It’s why I try to keep away from all of that. It gets too complicated too quickly for me.”

“Huh. I wouldn’t have pegged you as one.” His eyes his friend up. “So what did happen between you and Jocelyn?” Leonard sighs, and taps his fingers lightly against the glass that he hasn’t put down since he got there.

“That’s a long story Jim.”

“That’s what you said last time. If you’re going to avoid the topic, you could at least be a little more creative.” He challenges.

“Fine.” Bones says grumpily. “But if I’m telling that story, I have to tell you about my mother and father too. We could be here all night.” Kirk grins.

“Well, you’re lucky, I’m not due for another flesh parade in my quarters for at least two days.” He expects a laugh out of his friend, but Leonard simply shifts in his seat so he can gaze at the corner of the wall as he begins.

“My mother and father both came from privileged backgrounds. Good families, lots of money. I don’t know if they married so much for love or just because they were told that was what should be happenin’, but they got hitched. My mother had fertility problems. I was finally conceived in vitro. I don’t know this for sure, but I think my mother would have preferred to abort me and try for a girl. She had me in dresses until I started school, when my dad told her to knock it off.” Kirk can see the half smile on the side of McCoy’s face, his eyes staring off in a dreamy sort of way.

“The thing about my ma is that she was a horse lady. A crazy horse lady. She had me on a saddle with her from as early as I can remember, and when I was able to ride on my own, she set me up with a trainer so I could start racin’. Strictly speaking, I was too young to be really trainin’, but I had a great pony and it was somethin’ I loved doin’ with her. It was the only time she really paid attention to me. She was always so proud of me, and not to toot my own horn, but I was good.

“The thing is that I went through puberty late. I was this short, 5’ 4” thing when I began to be able to race in local competitions, and that was good. But a few months after I started, I hit my growth spurt. I went to 5’6”, then 5’8” then 5’10” in a matter of months. And my weight started to creep up as well. To race, you and your gear has to be less than 125lbs, and gear takes up about 7lbs of that. My ma started weighing me every morning, and when I got up to 115lbs, she put me on a diet. She had this… tongue cluck she’d do if she didn’t like the weight she saw on the scale, never outright chastising me but I knew she was disappointed.

“So I stopped eating. I’d go for days at a time without food, subsisting on water and coffee and some diet pills she had bought off the black market, and for a while I felt great. My weight came down and the tongue clucking stopped and everything was wonderful.

“But after a while, I started binging. Days without food, followed by binges that could last hours. My stomach would hurt and I’d feel like I was going to throw up, but I couldn’t stop shoveling the food in. My weight started creeping up again, and so eventually I decided that throwin’ up and overexercising was the ticket back into my mother’s good graces. So the pattern became four to five days without eating, with massive amounts of ephedrine and cardio exercise, followed by a binge, followed by a purge, and the cycle would continue. Despite my binging, the weight continued to fall off, and my ma stopped weighing me, because it was obvious that I was thin enough.

“If my dad were around more often, he probably would have seen what was goin’ on and put a stop to it. But between his busy schedule in surgery and giving lectures and writin’ papers, and my busy schedule with school and ridin’, we barely saw each other.

“When I was 17, I had a competition, and I was excited because I was at my lowest weight. When I dehydrated myself, I was 95lbs, and I was sure this meant that me an’ my horse would be flyin’ down the race track. I could barely walk straight, but goddamn when I got on my horse I felt like I was free. I wound up goin’ into cardiac arrest during the race. When I woke up, I was in the hospital, and my mom and dad were there, dad lookin’ pissed and ma all teary eyed. My dad sent me to an in-patient treatment centre in Atlanta. It was a good place, if you wanted to get better, but I was the only man there, and the women were insane. They all kept comin’ over, talkin’ about how delicate my wrists were, wanting to know how I had done it. Plus, I felt like my reasons for being there were less valid than most of them. There was a ballet dancer, who had done what I had done for similar reasons, but most of the girls has been sexually abused and used food as a way of pushing their abusers away, avoiding sexual attention. I felt very out of place.

“There, I met Jocelyn. She was one of the few that really wanted to get better, so I mostly stuck with her. We’d avoid the gossip sessions about which foods were easiest to throw up, avoid the unsaid competition about who could stay skinniest in treatment. We would just talk, and she would talk about her dad abusin’ her, and I’d listen, and she told me that I was the best friend she ever had.

“When I left treatment and was fully hydrated again, I weighed 110lbs, and I kept at the treatment plan they had set out for me, and kept gainin’ until I was at a healthy weight. My ma never said anything, and my dad sold my horse, but I could always tell she felt betrayed.

“Jocelyn and I started dating, and when it came time to go to college, I opted for Mississippi, my father’s alma mater, mostly so I could get away from my mom. Jocelyn followed me there, and we went to school together. Our relationship was largely sexless – she was still dealin’ with the trauma of her dad, and I didn’t mind it. I was busy with school, and I really hadn’t had the time to figure out sex and sexuality with the eating disorder, so I felt it was safe.

“I proposed when I was done med school, and we rented an apartment and she started teaching. Eventually, we started trying to figure out the sex thing, but half of the time she’d start crying as we’d have to stop. Then, she got pregnant and miscarried, and she started relapsing into her eating disorder.

“A side to her came out that I hadn’t seen before. She’d go grocery shopping, and make the most fattening, hearty meals that you could ever imagine. She’d sit at home, waiting for me to come back, with this incredible spread before her, and demanded I eat. It was delicious. She would sit and watch me eat, smoking a cigarette, this thin little smile on her face, and… something in her eyes. They were like a blade. She kept getting skinnier and I started gainin’ weight. She suddenly started wantin’ sex all the time, and after I’d eat she’d throw herself on me. She started making remarks about what a piggie I was, and how fat I was getting, and how disgusting it was, but she was hornier than ever and I couldn’t figure it out. One day I came home and I refused to eat what she had put out. Told her that I was gaining weight, getting tired more easily, and I couldn’t keep doing this, not to mention our food bills. She was enraged. She picked up a butcher’s knife and started pointing it at me, yellin’ about how little piggies needed to eat and that if I didn’t sit down and eat everything on the table that she was gonna to kill me and make bacon out of me. It sounds funny, but at the time, it was terrifin’.”

“Bones, none of this story is funny.” Kirk replies breathlessly.

“No.” He agrees, still making eye contact with corner of Kirk’s quarters. “No, I suppose it isn’t.” He takes a deep breath.

“So anyway, I jumped up and ran into the bathroom and locked myself in it. She kept stabbin’ at the door with the knife, but she didn’t have the strength to actually stab it through. I waited until her rage subsided, and crept out while she slept. I called the police, and God it was an embarrassing story to tell, but they formed her. I visited her while in treatment, and I wanted to work on the marriage, because I made a vow, but she refused. She was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder, and she was slightly nicer when hopped up on SSRIs, but she still called me names and insisted that she didn’t know why she had ever married a sad, pathetic man like me. So we got divorced.

“I don’t think I would have signed up for Starfleet at that point. But right after my divorce, two things happened: I met Nancy Crater and my dad got sick. Nancy was so sweet and a genuinely beautiful person on the inside. I was the codependent boyfriend who couldn't get enough of her. She was so _sane_ and had everything put together. I didn't realize it then, but she was suffering under my neediness. With my dad, he contracted a prion disease, one of the ones that mutated in the early 2100s. We thought he had dementia at first, but then he began having seizures, lost motor control. Eventually he couldn’t breath on his own, so he was ventilated for months. He was in such pain - the disease alternately stimulated or destroyed various receptors, and his pain receptors were stimulated. There was only so much we could do to ease the pain. One day, I was there during a lucid moment, and he asked me to end the pain. I did. It was selfish, because I wanted my last memory of him to be when he was lucid - not screaming about how my mom and I were trying to kill him, how Starfleet was after him because he held some sort of alien bioweapon. Mom came in when the beeping started, and she just looked at me. I never told her, but she knew. And that was where our relationship ended. I stopped coming home for Christmas, she didn’t acknowledge my birthday. I didn’t have a family anymore. A few months after I killed him, they made a major breakthrough and found the cure to most prion diseases. Then, Nancy broke up with me as well, and I realized I had absolutely no reason to stay on the planet, nevermind in Mississippi.

“So, I signed up for Starfleet. They’re so short of doctors that you only have to go to the academy to get in some xenobiology courses and a course of the physiological and psychological effects of space on the human body, so it was only another year of training, including a very short clinical experience. There, I met another doctor, and he was really handsome, like the sort of guy they put on the cover of romance novels. He was interested in me, and I figured since Jocelyn and Nancy hadn’t worked out, why not try something a little different? Anyway, he wound up being abusive as well. Very controlling, started hitting me. So after that was done and over with, I figured that relationships weren’t for me.” He gives a small smile again. “I went to a therapist once, and she mentioned that people who get into abusive relationships often make a pattern out of it. Like we give off some homing beacon for abusive people. So I just gave up. I figured being in space and being faced with a bunch of alien diseases and trying to stay alive would distract me from my own pathetic loneliness. The sky was full of promise when I left earth, but I got up here, and I found out it was hollow – just this vast vacuum of space.” He finally faces Jim again, and the captain isn’t sure of what to say. He reaches out for the doctor’s had on the table and gives it a squeeze, meeting McCoy’s dreamy, dissociated gaze with a plea for understanding.

“Bones, you’re not pathetic. No one else could keep this crew of misfits together as well as you have. There isn’t a single doctor in the fleet that I would rather have on the bridge, in my sick bay, in my quarters having drinks with me. Not only because you’re an incredible doctor, but because you’re a charming, witty, intelligent... You lighten up my days, Bones.” McCoy looks like he wants to argue for a second, but instead his lips thin in a false smile.

“Thanks Jim.” He takes another drink. “Enough of my yammerin’, tell me your sad childhood stories. You were on Tarsus IV, I’m sure you have enough angst to power a warp engine.” Kirk gives his own sad smile and releases Bones’s hand.

“Well, we’ve all got sob stories, don’t we?” He sighs and runs a hand through his locks. “I mean, most of it isn’t anything you wouldn’t read in a history book. They were looking for colonists, actually. They wanted as many families and single women as the Federation would throw at them. My mom and dad signed up with plans of possibly staying on the colony when they retired, sort of scoping the place out. So my brother and I were signed up for school there. We were both great students, they labelled me as a genius. A few months after I landed, the markets were suddenly sparse, and instead of meals we had items put together on a plate. Then, the government announced that a fungus had destroyed 80% of yields that year, and because the colony was so new, stockpiles were limited. They took over the private market, and started rationing. When they chose who would live and who would die. The Kirks were both chosen to live.” There is a lump in his throat that he chokes down. “Genetic testing revealed almost no defects that made us susceptible to typical diseases like cancer, Parkinson’s disease, etcetera. We were all rated as very intelligent on IQ tests. We were worthy to live.

“We had enough food to live at subsistence levels, barely, but the ones who weren’t chosen were just waiting out their time to die. The ones who stopped receiving food rations knew their time was coming, but it’s difficult to execute 4,000 people at once, so they had to wait their turn. A lot of them just died from eating something that turned out to be poisonous to humans. I never know whether it was ignorance or deliberate suicide. I saw people swallowing pebbles, trying to get rid of that gnawing hunger. I tried to save so many of my friends and classmates. There was a small effort by nearby members of The Federation of Planets to run covert operations to sneak those marked for death off of the planet, and the four of us were part of the underground that was involved. They'd send in ships, disguised as supply vessels, and leave medical supplies, or some sort of edible food, or whatever, and ferry back as many people as they could. But Tarsus IV is very isolated, and most of the nearby planets were primitive species, unfriendly to Starfleet. On one of my runs, Kodos’ men caught up with us, and I urged the five people that I was running to keep going while I held them off with phaser fire. Myself and two others were caught, hauled into the jail at Kodos’ palace, and they were executed immediately. Since I had been chosen to survive, what I got instead was a private audience with Kodos himself. He gave me a lecture on betraying the ideals of Tarsus IV, about how the less worthy weren’t worth preserving, and he knew it was hard but it was for the best that natural selection took place. It was the raving of a mad man. I was tortured, for three days, until I finally told him about the supply runs.” A cold wave of shame spreads through his core, still as gripping and painful as it was all those years ago. “I couldn’t hold out any longer. I would have done _anything_ to get the pain to stop. After I gave them the information, they left me in the dungeon, where I was rescued by an early arrival of Starfleet. I’m not sure how long I waited, but I think over a day or so.” He pauses.

“The fucked up thing was those were probably some of the best moments I had with my parents. They were always so wrapped up in each other. From the perspective of a relationship, they were perfect. They never fell out of love. But there never seemed to be enough of whatever they had to extent to me and Sam. It wasn’t anything you could point your finger at, because they took us to the beach, we had Christmas and Thanksgiving together, they bought us presents and celebrated our birthdays and said they loved us. But they all seemed like hollow gestures, like it wouldn’t have really mattered if we were there or not. When we were working together, shuttling people off the planet in covert missions, I knew they were proud of me, and worried about me, and it was kind of a fucked up parental bond, you know? When I was recovering in hospital after being tortured, they both sat there, never leaving, both eager for my attention when I woke up.” Bones nods, and Kirk knows that he’s seen the list of injuries inflicted in his medical history, and perhaps that’s why he doesn’t wear that shocked, pitying look that so many others have before him. Kirk is grateful.

“Jim.” He says, and looks regretful for a few minutes. “When I bothered you about your weight… I didn’t mean anything by it. I didn’t…” Bones fumbles for words, and the captain just smirks.

“You think that after surviving Tarsus IV the biggest thing that haunts my dreams is you replacing all of my meals with salads? Give me a little credit, Bones. I’m not quite that delicate.” Leonard smiles back.

“Of course you’re not Jim.”

“Do you ever worry about your weight?” He asks, suddenly wondering if he missed a bigger theme in his apology. Bones shook his head.

“No. I don’t have to worry about crushing a horse under my fat ass, so it isn’t something I spare much attention to, other than my physicals. Although, sometimes, when I’m feeling like shit and I can’t seem to do anything right, I fantasize about shoving my fingers down my throat again, and feeling like I’m accomplishing something. Earning the love of a dead woman.” He snorts. “But I know that would cause more problems than it’s worth, so I just throw myself into somethin’ else for a while.” Jim nods.

“Sometimes when I’m stressed and can’t sleep, I head to the cafeteria and replicate some food. Sometimes I eat it, sometimes I don’t, and sometimes I just touch it so I know that it is there and there won’t be any food shortages.” Bones smiles.

“I can’t believe you wanted a career in space after that.”

“I always thought, while I was on Tarsus, that if I were part of Starfleet, I would have done something different. Seen the warning signs earlier, started evacuations before the genocide hit, sent help earlier… I joined because I thought I would be better, I would be different. Now that I realize what a bureaucratic mess Starfleet is, I’m just amazed that the fleet managed to arrive before everyone on the planet was dead.” Bones chuckles.

“Ain’t that the truth.” He pauses, and gives his captain a look of respect. “You know, I joined Starfleet to run away from my problems. You joined so that you could face them again. If only all men were of your calibre.” Jim swells a little under the praise, but just as quickly waves it off.

“Perhaps I only joined because some part of me hoped I could rewrite the past. And that must be the most foolish form of hope that a man could entertain.” He smiles at himself and raises his glass. “To two foolish young men that became foolish old ones.” Leonard clinks his glass and they both drink deeply, lost in thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure many people are like 'This is the weirdest, most unrealistic backstory for Bones that I have ever seen.' And it probably is. It was one of those plot bunnies that wouldn't leave me alone though. So, mea culpa!
> 
> Also, Happy Thanksgiving for my Canadians!


	7. Dialysis

“Lieutenant Uhura.” Jim siddles up to the beauty at the food replicator. “What a beautiful morning to see such a beautiful woman.” She narrows her eyes and frowns.

“Captain. I would prefer it if you would bypass the pleasantries and tell me what you want.” Both of their meals come out at the same time, and they grab their trays.

“Just… come sit with me. I need to ask a favour.” He picks out a table that is empty and Nyota dutifully follows him.

“What is it?” She asks again. Kirk raises a golden eyebrow.

“Someone’s grumpy before their first coffee.” Her face remains passive, but she radiates irritation, and Jim lowers his voice and gets down to business. “I need you to find every medical research laboratory in range of us, and finds ones that have teams devoted to xenopolycythemia. Then, I need you to ask for a video conference with the lead researcher at the base. I need you to continue updating the list of available research facilities as we move.” Uhura raises her eyebrows.

“Captain, that could be… very time consuming. Not only for me, but for you as well. Why do you want so much time and energy invested into this project?”

“Lieutenant, when I issue you a command, you follow it. The rationale is none of your concern.” He replies shortly.

“Is this a favour, or a command?” She asks. Jim ponders for a moment.

“If you’ll do it without a command, it’s a favour. I’d just rather Starfleet not know about it.” Her eyes knit together, looking at him intensely, and he can almost feel her making connections in her mind, until finally her eyes snap open and she looks horrified.

“Doctor McCoy!” She gasps. “He has xenopolycythemia, doesn’t he?” The captain is a little impressed, if he’s honest with himself.

“If that were theoretically true, I wouldn’t be allowed to disclose that information to anyone.” His face is flat and his voice has the tone of warning. Uhura simply shakes her head, looking off into the distance before returning her sad gaze back to her captain. Jim takes the time to start digging into his bacon, eggs and toast.

“I had misread the situation.” She says mirthlessly. “I mean, we all did. We thought you were having some sort of lover’s quarrel and-“

“What?” Jim is caught off guard and gives her a rarely seen deer-in-headlights stare, half-chewed piece of toast forgotten in his mouth.

“Well, yes.” She insists. “We were all talking about how you almost refused to let him go down on the asteroid, and how you didn’t ask him to be in the landing party on _The Defiant._ There were rumours that he was trying to stay on the asteroid, and you came back with him unconscious… Then there was that emergency call you placed to Starfleet, and the doctor trying to break into the call… we thought you were punishing him for trying to stay, but I know better now. You were worried about him.” Jim resumes chewing on his toast, and eyes the clock, noting he has only ten minutes until the start of alpha shift.

“So, you’ll do it?”

“Of course!” She looks almost offended. “You know I would do anything for a member of this crew. But captain…” Her dark eyes are full of worry. “How long does he have left?”

“As far as you and the rest of the crew know, Ms. Uhura, Bones is in tip-top physical condition. I’d like to keep it that way.” She nods, and a shoots a tender look at him as she leans back in her chair.

“Well, I’m glad you two have made up anyway.”

“Made… up?” He asks, arching an eyebrow as he piles some egg into his mouth.

“Yes! Your adorable stroking of his face on the bridge, the borderline disgusting loving looks you were giving each other… it was almost too much to handle.”

“Ms. Uhura.” He repeats, choking back his eggs as fast as possible. “We are not in a relationship.”

“As far as I and the rest of the crew know.” She winks. “And we’ll keep it that way.” Kirk pushes away his breakfast and looks at her incredulously.

“OK.” She admits. “The rest of the crew already know.”

 

McCoy doesn’t like needles. He’s a physician, and it’s childish he knows, but he doesn’t give a shit. With the advent of hyposprays needle usage had become a less common phenomenon, although they were still a tool in certain situations. Like when a man needed his blood drained.

The catheter suddenly feels uncomfortable, and he knows that it has shifted and hit a wall in his vein. He undoes the tape and shifts the line slightly, feeling better as the blood starts flowing more quickly. Chapel had drawn curtains around him, and he feels relatively secure in his settings. He didn’t want any of the crew to report to sickbay and ask awkward questions about why the doctor was suddenly a patient. He rather enjoys the privacy and quiet, and allows thoughts of Jim to fill his mind.

Of course he’s noticed that Jim is an attractive man. He did have eyes, after all. Throw in all the charisma and testosterone, and you have yourself a deadly cocktail. But he had never considered the idea of them together. At least, not consciously. But somehow being terminally ill had forced all those unconscious, repressed feelings to the surface, and here he was, wallowing in his own uncertainty.

It was pathetic.

Jim obviously returned some kind of affection for him, but his kindness and increased intentions were due to the severity of the situation, not some sort of newfound attraction. At any rate, McCoy figured it didn't matter. He was dying. Everything in his life was coming to an end, and it was too late to make new beginnings.

The mechanism beeps as the drainage reaches 500mL, and Christine pops in immediately to take out the line. 

“Doctor, we have two men from engineering coming up for what sounds like mild burns.” Chapel tells him as she applies a layer of clear liquid to the puncture site to quell the bleeding. “Rest here for five minutes. I’ll do an assessment and report back.”

“Christine, what are the names of the two crewmen?” He asks.

“Ensigns Roberts and McDonald, sir. McDonald does have the JAK2 mutation.” She reads his intentions effortlessly, and McCoy nods. He’ll don his protective equipment after he’s had his rest period.

 

Jim isn’t sure whether to be irritated or delighted. Uhura had jumped to her task as soon as she got onto the bridge at Alpha shift, and he suddenly had almost back-to-back teleconferences with researchers, leaving the helm in Spock’s capable hands. _Don’t these people have research to be doing?_

The most frustrating part is that no one can tell him much more that tapes and information gathered from the computer’s library couldn’t tell him, but he had to endure the pedantic explanations from the researchers anyway. Xenopolycythemia was essentially regular old earth polycythemia that was prematurely activated and hastened by a virus. If you didn’t have the specific genetic defect for polycythemia in the first place, the virus was harmless, and McCoy wouldn’t be contagious. If someone did have the genetic mutation, the virus was only spread via blood. Did they have a cure? Well, no. Could they slow it down? Sure. There was a type of dialysis McCoy could undergo, but it didn’t get rid of the virus, since it embedded itself in the bone marrow. But it could cleanse the blood and possibly offer a reprieve from death for another six months to a year. Sometimes, patients even extended their lives by up to two years. It also reduced the chance of infection to another patient even if blood contact in made. The process was painful and time-consuming, but the ship should have the machine on board, if he wanted to talk to the CMO. He wonders why McCoy didn’t mention this.

He thanks the last researcher, and heads down to sick bay.

 

Leonard is just finishing up with McDonald when Jim comes in.

“You’re free to go, ensign.” He says easily, and takes off his gloves, respirator and goggles. He had been a bit overcautious, but he felt it was worth it. The ensign jumps off the biobed and returns to engineering with a layer of mepilex on his arm.

“Doctor, did you have breakfast today?” Jim asks cheerfully. McCoy scowls.

“Yes Jim, I did.” He replies. It was mostly because his blood draw was today, and it was recommended to eat and drink before hand, but he had been eating breakfast more than usual in general. Not that he would tell Jim that. He wouldn’t want all the control to go to the captain’s head.

“Good, good. Listen, I was wondering… do we have a viral dialysis machine on board?” McCoy raises his eyebrow distrustfully.

“You’ve been reading.”

“A captain’s work is never done.” He replies. “This wasn’t a treatment method that you had on your treatment plan, was it?” McCoy sighs.

“Look, Jim, yes, we do have it on board, but quite frankly, it’s a bitch of a treatment. Not only am I overproducing red blood cells, but also platelets and white blood cells as well. Normally, white blood cells would help fight off a virus, but in xenopolycythemia, the virus is mutating the white blood cells as well. The dialysis requires me to find a few undamaged white blood cells producing antibodies to the virus, and replicate them. Then, my blood is removed from my body, little by little, and the antibodies attack the virus outside of my body, and then my blood is filtered back. But the virus adapts so rapidly that after one treatment, it is already working on mutating, so by the time the next treatment rolls around, I need to do the same work with antibodies again. It can take days to find the proper antibodies, and another twelve hours to replicate enough of them to completely cleanse the blood, and the dialysis itself takes four hours per half litre. Assuming five litres of blood, it means twenty hours of just laying there. This may be feasible in a hospital setting, but I can’t act as CMO and undergo this treatment at the same time. It is more than a full-time job to do the treatment alone.” Jim’s face falls slightly.

“Well, fuck.”

“Yeah.” Bones agrees.

 

“Captain.” Uhura greets him as he takes over his chair from Spock. “We have a distress signal coming in. They require medical assistance.” Jim takes a deep breath.

“Well isn’t that great.” He mutters to himself.

“What is interesting, captain,” Spock begins. “Is that the planet that the distress signal is originating from what not there before, and Starfleet has never mapped it. They must be using a cloaking technology.”

“To hide an entire planet?” Jim frowns. “That must take a tremendous amount of power, not to mention very advanced technology. If they are so far ahead of us in terms of technological advancements, I doubt we can provide them with any medical assistance they can’t provide for themselves.”

“Captain.” Spock says again. “Whether we can or cannot is immaterial. It is our duty to see if any assistance can be rendered.”

“I know, commander.” Jim tiredly replies, and presses the communicator button on his chair. “Bridge to sick bay.”

“McCoy here.”

“Doctor, can you bring a field medical kit and tricorder to the transport room immediately?”

“I’ll be right there.” Jim stares at the screen warily. If the civilization is that advanced, what kind of illness would he be dealing with? Biological warfare? Deadly airborne disease? A genocide caused by wild tribble attack?

“Spock, you and I will be in the landing party. Mr. Sulu, you have the conn.”

“Aye aye, captain.” His helmsman responds cheerfully as he and Spock head to the transporter room.

 

“What is it this time?” McCoy asks when he arrives.

“Medical distress signal.” Kirk looks at him, unsure of what his CMO’s reaction will be. The brunet clenches his hand around his tricorder.

“Jim,” he begins. “Perhaps it would be wise to have me down for this one.”

“Given the situation, that is illogical.” Spock says. “Based on the information we have so far, the civilization is very advanced. It is probably that any medical situation they cannot handle will also be impossible for us to rectify.”

“Now lads,” Scottie says, looking up from the controls of the transporter. “We all know that McCoy can work miracles! No point in ‘avin’ ‘im sit aroun’ on tha ship if he can be doin’ some good planetside.” Leonard smiles, the large grin that makes him look like he's ten years old, and Jim is irritated.

“We can’t risk our only medical officer beaming down into a situation we probably can’t handle.” He says shortly, taking the supplies from the doctor.

“Aye, tha’s neva stopped yah before tho.”

“Less commentary, more beaming.” Jim demands as he and Spock step into the assigned spots. Scotty shrugs, presses the buttons and works the sliders…

To no avail.

“Scotty.” Jim grimaces. “Is there is a problem with the transporter?” The Scotsman looks flummoxed.

“Nae, captain. There shouldnae be. I checked over the lady miself jus’ this mornin’.” He frowns. “I need someone ta check the modulator in the top o’ the transporter. Docter, could yeh… mayhbe the cap’in can give ya a hand an’ ya can take a look at his first.” Jim bites the inside of his cheek in irritation, but motions McCoy to come over.

“Scotty…” the doctor’s tenor rings out. “I don’t think even if I stood on his shoulders that I would be tall enough.”

“Yah got long limbs and yer light, docter. It won’ be a problem.” He assures. Kirk crouches down, and the doctor awkwardly climbs onto his shoulders, thighs pressing tightly against Kirk’s neck as the captain slowly stands. He wants to make a comment about McCoy not being light enough, but figures those jokes are a little unwarranted after their last heart-to-heart.

And suddenly, they’re gone, and Scotty and Spock can only stare at the space where the two used to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I've been lax in updating! I needed to take a break for a while. Up next, we encounter the 'Plato's Stepchildren' episode.


	8. Plato's Stepchild

Jim falls over at the sudden transition between the ship and the landing coordinates, and takes Bones with him. There is a hard ‘thunk’ as McCoy’s skull hits the floor, but Kirk’s own head is pillowed to a certain extent by the bony pelvis beneath him.

“Fuck!” He untangles himself from Bones’ lower limbs and crawls over to his CMO, who is wincing as he gingerly checks the back of his head. “Bones, are you OK?”

“For the love of God, Jim…” But he checks his hand, and there is no blood on it. “I think I am.” Kirk gets up and offers a hand to his friend, who takes it and climbs unsteadily to his feet. They both look around at the palace before them, and a sense of dread comes over Jim. For some reason, the nice aliens never lived in nice places.

“Are you from the spaceship Enterprise?” A voice asks, and both men look towards the wall where a tall shadow has been cast.

“That’s right.” Jim strides over to where the shadow originates from, and after a moment of hesitation, McCoy follows. The shadow becomes smaller and smaller, until finally a little person walks around a column.

“Alexander, at your service.” The small man introduces himself. “I sing, I dance, I do all variety of things. And I am a very good loser. Please try to bear that in mind. Now, will you please accompany me.” He starts to toddle off and they follow.

“Who are the inhabitants of this planet?” Jim asks.

“Oh, the Platonians. I’m sure you’ve never heard of us. Our native star is Sahndara. A millennia ago, just before it went nova, we managed to escape it. Our leader liked Plato’s ideas. Plato, Platonians, you see. Our current philosopher king, Parmen, sometimes calls us Plato’s children, although sometimes we think of ourselves as more Plato’s stepchildren.” The man speaks open and freely, but there is an incredibly anxiety that vibrates off of him. Jim eyes McCoy, who had can tell is sensing it as well. Suddenly, Alexander runs backwards as if pulled by an invisible force, and the two follow him to what the captain assumes is a bed chamber. There is a magnificent chessboard laid out with replicas of various Greek gods and heros as the pieces. A man lays on a fainting couch, draped in cloth, and a blonde woman gracefully rushes down the steps to meet them.

“Welcome to our Republic.” She says in clipped tones. “I am unsure of why there are two of you, as we had only planned for one to be brought down, but no matter. Which one of you is the physician?”

“I am.” Bones says, but Jim wishes he hadn’t volunteered the information. His intuition told him there was something horribly daunting about this scenario, and he didn’t think it was good to single Leonard out like that. “What’s the problem?”

“My spouse, his leg. Come this way.” She demands, and Kirk knew that she was a woman who was used to getting her way. McCoy obediently follows her, and Jim keeps a steady but safe distance. The doctor looks at the leg beneath the covering, and his eyes shift thoughtfully.

“What happened to that leg?”

“I supposed I scratched it.” The man replies. He has a tone of ennui, and if Bones wasn’t looking at the patient as if he were the oddest thing he had ever encountered in medicine, Jim would have thought the gravity the situation had was undue.

“I don’t understand, this should have been tended to immediately.”

“Is there anything you can do?” Kirk asks.

“We’re certainly going to try.” He motions to Jim, who had forgotten he was wearing the doctor’s supplies. He steps on the dais to hand them over, and gets a glimpse at the wound. Gangrene had set in, and the flesh almost seems to be falling off the man’s mottled leg. He steps back and tries to choke down his disgust. McCoy quickly sets to work, injecting the man with a hypospray of some kind and Kirk notices two men, also dressed in Greek attire, watching on the opposite side of the room. The entire set up leaves a queasy feeling in his gut.

 

The tricorder records some kind of bacterial infection, but it can’t match it to anything in the ship’s database. It also reveals that there is absolutely no inflammation, and McCoy realizes that the man simply doesn’t have any sort of immune system. In Spock’s words, it is fascinating. He didn’t understand how it was possible to live long enough to become an adult without it.

Fortunately, the one thing that the tricorder CAN tell him is that the bacteria is gram-negative. So McCoy pushes a broad-spectrum antibiotic into the philosopher king, hoping he can make some headway there. He is working on cleansing the wound, and his patient starts to groan. Bones looks at him, and realizes the pain medication isn’t as effective on him, which he finds strange. The man should be narcotic naïve.

Suddenly he hears something break. He looks up, and realizes that all hell is breaking loose as statues and chess pieces are flying through the air and tables are rocking. He quickly grabs a sedative, hoping it won’t be as ineffective as the painkiller was, and quickly stabs it into Parmen’s arm. The man stops groaning, and once again every object seems to obey gravity as any airborne objects clatter to the ground.

“What was that?” Jim demands.

“Our psychokinetic ability.” The man’s wife responds, looking unperturbed. “These… outbursts have been happening when his pain is too strong.”

“I see.” Jim eyes her suspiciously, and Bones injects the king with another dose of pain killer, this time simple aspirin. He resumes his work carefully, trying not to upset his patient again, and is pleased when the man doesn’t kick up a fuss.

“How long have you had these psychokinetic abilities?” The captain asks.

“Ever since our arrival on Platonius.” She responds evenly.

“Why don’t you have any physicians?”

“We haven't had any pressing need for the medical arts. You see, while still on Sahndara, we instituted a mass eugenics programme. We're the result. Pared down to a population of thirty eight, we're perfect for our utopia. We're bred for contemplation and self-reliance. And longevity. We scarcely have to move anymore, let alone work.” There’s a lot of things in her explanation that aren’t making sense to McCoy, but he squishes the thought to the back of his mind as he continues to work, the dermoregenerator whirling away as it stitches up the tissue.

Jim doesn’t seem to have any other words for Philana, so the only sound for a few moments is the regenerator. Amazingly, McCoy notes, the wound seems to heal almost as fast as the regenerator can patch it up, and the gangrene has already turned from an ugly black colour into an angry red. By the time McCoy is done, the first part of the wound he had worked on looks completely normal, like the scratch and the infection had never happened. He looks upon his handiwork for another minute, and suddenly the entire shebang is gone, replaced by healthy pink tissue.

“This is incredible.” He murmurs appreciatively.

“We heal almost instantaneously, when the conditions are right.” Philana smiles in a way that is almost cruel, and McCoy looks towards Jim.

“Are you done, doctor?” He asks, and Bones nods, gathering his supplies before stepping back to the captain.

“Well then,” Jim shoots his winning grin at the blonde. “It looks like our work here is done. We’ll be heading back aboard our ship now.”

“Captain.” She says, and steps to him coyly. “We cannot thank you and your doctor enough. We have realized our error in not having a practitioner of the medical arts on our planet. We would like to request that Doctor McCoy stay with us.”

“That is impossible.” Jim says stiffly. “We need him aboard our ship.”

“But Doctor McCoy,” She turns towards the brunet, eyes imploring. “Your duties will be extraordinarily light. You'll be free to read, meditate, conduct research, whatever you like. You'll want for nothing.”

“The answer is no.” He says shortly.

“We should like to keep it cordial, but we are determined to have you stay, Doctor.” Parmen is suddenly up, and his robes reveal his leg, looking none the worse for wear.

“I cannot.” McCoy says, losing patience. “There is no offer that could make me leave my ship and crew.” Well, technically, there had been, but they weren’t telepaths. He hoped.

“We’re leaving, whether you like it or not.” Kirk says with finality, and begins to walk out of the room. Leonard tries to follow, but somehow every muscle in his body has stiffened, and he can’t even cry out to the captain. Jim seems to sense that he isn’t being followed, and whirls around.

“Bones?” He asks softly, a vulnerability in his features that seems to ask 'Not again?' and McCoy burns with reassurances he can't give.

“We are not allowing him to leave this planet.” Parmen declares. “But you, captain, are free to go.”

“Not without my doctor!” He shouts back. Suddenly, McCoy feels the stiffness leave his body, and Jim is spasming in pain.

“Jim!” He runs to his captain, holding him steady as he bends in unnatural angles from the pain. “Stop it!”

“If your captain refuses to leave, he can remain here to entertain us.” Parmen declares. His wife looks at him with what could almost be construed as tenderness.

“Darling, you do you know what this reminds me of?” She asks.

“What is it?”

“The play by the unknown author, recounting the… intimate acts of Achilles and his consort, Patroclus.”

“Oh, yes.” Parmen’s eyes light up. “It has been a long time since we have seen it performed. How fortunate that we have come across the perfect actors!” Bones feels his blood run cold, and he struggles even more against the forces that hold him. While not an expert in the classics, he had never heard of such a play. He didn’t know whether it was one of the many stories that was lost to their ancestors that the Platonians had managed to save, or whether he and his captain were simply pawns for a bunch of horny aliens that apparently didn’t even move enough to have sex.

“O Achilles,” He finds himself reciting. “Offended by the lord marshall. What rage is within you, to bequest Zeus to aide the Trojans. Is it worth such a petty loss, that of a woman? Spoils come and are taken away in war, but the loyalty of your men is everlasting. Why do you wish them such destruction?”

“My love,” Jim has stopped convulsing and twitching, and looks to McCoy with panic. “The spoils of war are rewards for my scars, for my service. They are not trifles to be demanded by such an unworthy man. You do not know, dear Patroclus, as you have never been in the din of battle. There is no greater injustice, and as I have done any other would do. The deadly archer could thrust his arrow into every man and I would not lift a finger. But do not concern yourself with matters which you don’t understand. Come, and let us lay together beneath the Mother of Mysteries, and forget the problems of the treacherous Agamemnon.” Bones finds himself leaning down, and Kirk raises his head, and both men panic as their lips draw closer together.

The kiss is horrendous, although perhaps that is to be expected when the actors are marionettes. There is initially an awkward mashing of lips, and Bones can feel the pressure of Kirk’s teeth on his philtrum. Then, they both open their mouths and play some sort of stabbing tongue tag, driving in and out of each other’s mouths in some sort of odd thrust. Kirk’s fingers then grab at his hair, painfully and without purpose, and Leonard’s hands are gripping his shirt, trying to slide it off the captain…

There is loud thud, and the concentration of Philana and Permon is disrupted and suddenly the two men are free. They unwrap themselves from each other and look at Alexander. Apparently while making their stage debut, he and the other two men had been continuing a game of chess, and Alexander’s piece had fallen and slowly rolled to the wall.

“I am sorry!” He squeaks under the harsh glare of the philosopher king.

“I think there’s something you should know.” Bones declares desperately before he can be forced to resume their play.

“What is it, physician?” Parmon asks, the same bored tones ringing through his words.

“The captain is genetically inferior.” He declares. “He has a mutation which will kill him before the year is over. I have a virus which may be communicable to the inhabitants of Platonius. We are not the proper material for a utopia such as yours.” Both king and queen look shocked, and Philana’s look turns to one of disgust.

“Of course. We should have guessed that any outsiders would be bringers of plague.” She turns to her husband. “We cannot risk having such brittle, disease-filled beings among us.”

“Of course not.” He agrees, and looks harshly at the Starfleet officers. “We wish that you would have informed us of this sooner. You may have put our entire world in jeopardy.” McCoy bites back a scathing remark. 

“We’ll be returning to our ship.” Kirk tells them as he untangles himself from his CMO and stands up. Leonard follows suit.

“With haste.” Philana glares and crosses her arms, as if they could defend her from the pathogens the two had brought with them.

“Scotty,” Kirk speaks into his communicator. “Beam us up.”


	9. Worlds Will Collide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Unsafe sex ahead. Don't try this on your own starship, kids!

Scotty breathes a huge sigh of relief when he sees the two men on the transporter pad.

“I donnae wha’ ‘appened!” He exclaims. “I dinnae press tha controls or anythin’, an’ suddenly tha two o’ yah were gone!”

“It was another planet with beings that had incredible powers.” Kirk dismisses. “I’m sure somehow they rigged it so that McCoy was the only one who would be able to beam down. I just got in their way.”

“Are yah two alrigh’?” He asks, concern etched into his big brown eyes. There’s a moment of silence where Kirk and Bones refuse to meet each other’s gaze, and Scottie stares between them expectantly.

“I need a drink.” McCoy finally mutters, and strides out of sick bay.

“Wha’s that about?” Scottie asks, following the doctor with his eyes.

“Just a lover’s quarrel.” Jim assures him, smiling like he’s just made a great joke. Scottie looks at him with sympathy.

“Aye, lad. Don’ tell the docter I said it, but he’s kin’ o’ moody. Can cut yah down to tha bone with tha’ sharp tongue of his. Yer probably tha only man strong enough to take him on, cap’in.” He clamps a hand on Kirk’s shoulder and grins happily. “I’m glad yah found each other.” Kirk stares at him, disbelieving.

“Mr. Scott, does everyone…” He struggles for the words, but Scottie gives another blinding grin.

“Ah, cap’in, ya two ‘ave never been inconspicuous. All tha’ touchin’ and stumblin’ between your quarters an’ McCoy fussin’ over yah, bein’ on tha bridge all tha tyme. Tha crew knows yah don’t want Starfleet gettin’ involved and makin’ yah fill out all that ‘fraternization paperwork’, so we’ve been turnin’ a blind eye.”

“Ah, yes.” Kirk says stoically. “Well, thank you.” He pauses for a moment. “Do you happen to have a bottle of something mind-numbing I can borrow?”

 

 

Kirk pats the top of his hair, making sure it is picture perfect, before pressing the buzzer to McCoy’s door. The doctor greets him with a snort, and Jim follows him to the table as they both sit down.

“Are we going to do this every night now?” McCoy asks.

“Worried about wearing out your liver?” Jim teases.

“A little.” He admits, but grabs the bottle and takes a swig from it. Jim stares, and McCoy shrugs. “I’m tired of washing the glasses every night. Besides, now that I’ve been exposed to your mouth germs, a little more ain’t gonna harm me.” 

“That was pretty wild, huh?” He asks, grabbing the bottle and taking a large gulp. McCoy rolls his eyes.

“A bunch of children playing at philosophical ideals. Plato would be rollin’ over in his grave. Maybe not so much about the eugenics part.” He takes another drink, and Jim realizes the doctor is nervous.

“That was smart thinking, Bones.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t get a medical degree if you haven’t got a little somethin’ rollin’ around in here.” He wraps his knuckles against his temple, but Jim notices that he isn’t quite meeting his eyes, and when they do make contact the brunet looks away as though he’s been scorched. There’s a heat rising in his cheeks and, despite the large shots Bones has been taking, Jim knows it’s too early in the night for the effects of alcohol to be coming on.

“I wish we had had the time to get a better picture of who they are.” Jim reminisces. Bones shook his head.

“The only thing I wish is that their next sun goes nova right as we leave their system. It was barbaric.”

“I can’t disagree with that.” Bones takes another gulp, drinking long enough that Jim is sure it’s more than a shot, and he gives the man a knowing grin as when he finally releases the bottle.

“Bones, is something the matter?” He asks with a false sincerity. His friend has never been able to hide his emotions well, and he looks like someone caught his hand in the cookie jar.

“What? What could be the matter? Maybe I’m tryin’ to drink myself to death, ever think of that, Jim?”

“No, Bones, I don’t think that’s it.” Jim Kirk knows that he has a talent of being able to charm people, and the opposite side is that he is also quite adept at throwing them off balance. There’s a part of him that knows that he shouldn’t engage in this - Bones is his friend, one he couldn’t bear to lose. But old habits die hard, and there’s that familiar tension in the air, and Jim feels as powerless over his own prowess as Leonard is over his nervousness. 

“You know what makes me uneasy? How horrible that play was. I’ve never even heard of a play remotely like that! Makes me think that they were usin’ us to act out some bizarre alien porno.” McCoy’s brain finally catches up to his words, and he blushes a deep scarlet that Jim didn’t even know the doctor was capable of. He takes another drink, trying to hide his embarrassment.

“If the play was horrible, that kiss was a crime against humanity.” He throws out the bait, watching the doctor carefully, how his hands suddenly seem restless, how he softly bites his bottom lip, how he looks anywhere but at Jim. Bones face doesn’t blush anymore, because Jim’s sure it’s humanly incapable of getting redder, but he lets out a forced grin as he clutches the neck of the bottle self-consciously.

The chase provides a heady level of intoxication that mere alcohol can’t match.

“Yeah, it was terrible, but to be honest, I kind of assumed that was the standard James. T. Kirk experience.” 

“Really Bones?” He asks in a low, smooth voice, amusement and incredulity flashing in his eyes. McCoy knows that something is brewing, as he looks like a gazelle waiting for the lion to finish him off. “I haven’t had any complaints. No one has ever left my chambers unsatisfied.” He reaches over and slowly pries each finger off of the alcohol, Bones staring at him with an anxious longing. Jim clasps his palm in Leonard’s, and threads their fingers together as he gets up and comes around the table, never breaking eye contact.

“Would you like me to show you?” He asks, as he crouches down to eye level. He doesn’t give Leonard a chance to respond, because he knows that the doctor won’t, _can’t_ , so instead he places a soft kiss on Leonard’s lips.

For a moment, his friend is unresponsive, and Kirk had expected that, so he lingers, lightly running his tongue against the Georgian’s lips, waiting for permission. Slowly, there is a tentative parting, and the blond man deepens the kiss, and then something breaks in McCoy.

Leonard stands up and pushes Kirk into the bed so fast it takes him a moment to catch up, and then McCoy’s lips are pressed so tightly against his that he thinks they both might bruise. Jim is exhilarated, fuelled by the taste of bourbon, and takes the doctor’s bottom lip and lightly bites it, stretching the flesh as his teeth run over it. Leonard whimpers and Kirk finds the moment to take back the balance of power, flipping his friend over and biting his neck hard enough to earn a gasp from McCoy and an uncontrollable jerk as the man’s erection seeks contact.

“Fuck.” Leonard groans, hands fumbling through the captain’s clothes, trying to find some flesh to touch. Jim stands and hurriedly takes off his own shirt, and McCoy’s hands are at his belt, deftly slipping the leather through loops and undoing the top button. He’s about to command that McCoy get undressed as well, but suddenly his pants are around his ankles and his cock is in McCoys mouth and his brain melts into his dick.

He isn’t sure if it’s the doctor’s knowledge of anatomy that makes the blow job so good, or the fact that he hasn’t had one in a while, but Kirk’s vocal chords suddenly can’t produce any noise. He grabs the back of McCoy’s head and pushes with shallow thrusts, but McCoy pulls his hips forward and fucking _swallows_ his glans and Jim knows he can’t go on much longer. He runs his hands through Leonard’s widows peaks and pulls at the hairs there, gently pulling McCoy’s lips off of him. He looks at the man for a minute, lips swollen with saliva running down his chin, and he’s so aroused that he has to close his eyes to keep from cumming at the sight.

“I wanna fuck you.” He says breathlessly. “We need lube.” Leonard leans over the bed and reaches in the night stand, producing a tube of Vaseline. Kirk raises an eyebrow.

“And you say you never get laid?”

“It’s for my lips.” He scowls. “The recirculated air makes ‘em dry.” He stands up and pulls Jim in for another kiss, his mouth tasting faintly like Jim’s cock, and Kirk groans, thinks he might cum right then. He steps out of his pants and starts helping McCoy undress. His shirt goes flying and Jim pushes Leonard back on the bed, helps him out of his pants as he wiggles his hips. He grabs the tube of Vaseline and coats his fingers liberally, and before Leonard can ask Jim where he wants him, he’s got two fingers up McCoy’s ass.

“Oh God…” Bones moans, and Jim watches his face hungrily as he curls two fingers to hit his prostate. “Fuck… Jim…” It’s a breathless moan, and he grabs the brunet’s cock. Jim means to give him long, tantalizing strokes, but his excitement catches up with his and his arm is moving faster than it should, and he’s grateful the man isn’t circumsized. He can’t wait any longer, and moves his cock to align with Leonard’s wet asshole. He slips on his first attempt, but Bones shifts his hips upwards, and then his head slides in, slowly. Leonard’s face opens up wide in a panic.

“Jim…” He gasps.

“I’ll go as slow as you need me to.” Even though he doesn’t want to, because he’s scared to lose the momentum, scared that Leonard might suddenly decide that this is a _bad idea_. But he gives short, shallow thrusts, feels the goosebumps that run up and down Bones’ arms, watches the uncoordinated movements of his face as he shifts through pain, discomfort and finally melts into a small gasp of pleasure.

“That’s it, baby.” He whispers. “Just relax and let me in.” The grip on his dick is warm and tight, like Leonard’s mouth, and he feels like he could explode just from watching Leonard’s face, hearing the small moans he makes. He can’t remember ever feeling this good before, even though he’s sure Leonard’s ass is no more special than any other he’s ever taken.

Finally, he’s into the hilt and Leonard lets out a deep groan as Jim bottoms out.

“OK?” He asks, and Bones opens his eyes slowly and nods. Jim can’t tear his gaze away, and begins to thrust. He knows this isn’t his best performance because it’s hard to thrust in time and also focus his attention on Bones’ face, but he needs to see the lust and need flickering across the doctor’s face, needs to see what he looks like when he cums.

Bones wraps his legs around Jim’s hips, and grunts “Harder” as he pulls the man in. Jim moans as he feels the tightening in his balls, a high and needy warning, and is desperate to take Bones with him. He blindly fumbles for that tube of Vaseline, and presses it into McCoy’s hand.

“Touch yourself.” He says breathlessly, barely able to hear himself over the roar of blood in his ears. “Need to see you cum.” McCoy lubes up his hand and does exactly that, and Jim tries to hold on but Bones clenches around him as his own orgasm rises, and he knows he’s losing the battle.

“Bones…” He groans helplessly. “Gonna cum.”

“Cum in me.” He demands, eyes glassy as his hips jerk up in his own orgasm.

And Jim does just that.

 

Jim crashes down on him, breathing hard, and Leonard’s cum is gluing their bodies together in a slippery mess. The room smells like a whore house, and he wishes he could bottle the scent and wear it as cologne.

“Fuck.” Jim mumbles on his chest. “Jesus fucking Christ.” Leonard places his hand on the side of Jim’s neck, and is happy to feel that his heart is beating as fast as his own.

_So different_ he realizes. All of his previous encounters with Jocelyn had left him feeling like a rapist, his moments with William like he was being punished for something. This time, he felt like he was flying.

No wonder people loved doing this.

“Bones.” Jim mutters, gripping putting his hands on Leonard’s hips.

"Jim, I just want you to know that I checked your medical profile, and you don't have the genetic mutation which xenopolycythemia acts on." Leonard reassures him. Jim is silent for a moment.

"Oh." And the doctor realizes the thought had never even crossed his mind. He makes a mental note to chide Jim about his irresponsible practices later, but for the moment can't muster the energy required to be irritated.

"Bones." Jim calls out again.

“Hmm?” He drawls. Jim lifts his head and looks up at him, hazel eyes full of something that he can’t place.

“I don’t know. Just talk to me.” And so Leonard tells him about the happy times in his life. Watching his father perform the first robotic implantation of a medulla, summer visits to his maternal grandparents in Louisiana, about the cat that he made friends with during his time at the academy. Jim puts his cheek to Bones' chest and starts to snore lightly. McCoy closes his eyes and for once feels perfectly content where he is.


	10. The Most Important Meal of the Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I was on vacation for a bit! Anywho, next chapter!

Jim has never spent the night with someone he’s fucked.

He doesn’t count his time with Miramanee because he had had amnesia, and you can’t blame someone for their actions when they don’t even know who they are. He had lost his virginity on Tarsus IV to an older woman, old enough to be his mother. It was supposed to have been a bright spot in his otherwise sullen existence on the planet, something to brag about for years to come. But afterwards he had felt confused and overwhelmed, as though he had been an object used for her gratification, a body that could have had anyone else’s face attached to it. She had rushed him out the door, explained her husband would be due back soon, and Jim had gone to a meeting of the Tarsus Youth, a gnawing anxiety in his stomach and wordless questions badgering him at the back of his mind.

Since then he has had many infatuations, self-proclaimed feelings of love that he knew didn’t quite fit the definition. Pretty faces that were unavailable for longer than it took to complete their latest mission. Jim has his niche, and he is comfortable there.

Yet, when he wakes up in Bones’ tiny bed, an arm slung over his sleepy companion, it isn’t as horrifying as he imagined it would be. It has a domestic tranquility to it, and a warmth rises in his chest as he listens to Leonard’s deep breathing. It’s so comfortable it makes him uncomfortable, and he’s torn between his innate desire to run and that niggling voice in his head that wonders if this could be different…

That little voice scares him, positions him at the edge of a canyon where he can fall into the unknown, a risk that could either reap great rewards or leaving him falling to his death. Or walk back along the plateau, coughing on dust as the sun burned his skin, and nothing would change.

Part of why Jim loves _The Enterprise_ so much is that she is predictable. She malfunctions if Jim pushes her too hard, purrs if she’s maintained. It’s an equation of input and output, perfectly balanced. People, on the other hand, are inherently dangerous, unpredictable, hard to control.

Yet, the little voice won’t let up, and he wonders if perhaps he should listen to it. He squeezes Bones gently, finding a small moment of reassurance.

“Bones…” he murmurs, the word coming out almost as a plea, although he doesn’t know for what. The brunet just groans and presses his head into the pillow.

“Bones.” He tries again, louder, and Leonard opens his eyes, looking confused for a moment.

“Oh.” And Bones just _stares_ at him. Jim chuckles, and feels oddly content.

“Get up. We’re going to shower, and eat breakfast before Alpha shift starts.”

 

Jim runs his hand through his hair as they wait for the replicators to finish producing their meals. Bones hadn’t spoken in more than grunts, and has steadfastly refused any eye contact. He wants to confront him and ask exactly what his problem is because his behaviour was putting Jim on edge as well. Then again, perhaps if he just waits the older man will snap out of it and Jim won't have to address it at all.

Miracles often did happen aboard the ship.

They grab their trays and walk over to the table, and Bones just stares down at his oatmeal sullenly, and Jim breaks.

“Is there something wrong, Bones?” He asks softly, left hand gripping the hair at his temples.

“I’m fine.” He replies monotonously.

“OK then.” Jim stabs at his cardboard bacon, like a child playing with his food, because he doesn’t feel very hungry anymore. “Listen, I’ve been on teleconferences with a lot of experts in the field of xenopolycythemia.” At this, Bones does meet his gaze, but his expression is flat.

“And?”

“Well, other than that dialysis machine, nothing productive came out of the calls.” He admits. Leonard nods and resumes running a spoon through his oatmeal. “But don’t worry. I’m going to figure something out. I’m working on a plan B.”

“Jim,” Bones sighs. “There is no plan B.”

“Of course there’s a plan B.” Jim replies easily. “There’s never just a single avenue to consider. Sometimes you just have to go down the side streets rather than on the main road.”

“Jim, stop it.” He hisses, gripping his spoon tightly. The captain frowns.

“Stop what?”

“This!” He yells as he flicks his wrist, sending his spoon flying and attracting the attention of every crewman. The cafeteria goes silent. “This fucking ridiculous pet project! There is no cure, and there isn’t going to be one in a year! You’re wasting your time on a fool’s errand, and no one else is going to tell you because you’re the fucking captain, but your level of hope is stupefying!” He gets up, glares at Jim with a hatred the captain has never seen, and storms out of the canteen.

Logically, Jim knows that his emotions are high and he shouldn’t react on impulse. But his face flushes and he gets tunnel vision, and suddenly he’s up and stalking after the CMO, whispering a small _I told you so_ at the little voice inside of him.

“Leonard!” He calls as he sees McCoy’s slim frame waiting by the lift. The doctor freezes. This marks only the second time in Jim’s memory that he has used the man’s first name.

“What is going on with you?” He demands as he catches up, grabbing McCoy’s tense shoulder to him around. “It was like talking to a fucking statue this morning, and now this?” The lift opens up and Leonard steps on, not looking at the captain. Jim follows.

“Did last night change something?” He asks, trying to infuse his voice with more patience than he actually has.

“Fuck you.” Bones finally looks at him, eyes icy blue with malice in a way that make Jim's heart stop. Without breaking eye contact, he presses the emergency stop button and they grind to a halt.

“What the fuck?” McCoy’s disgust is now mixed with panic. “Jim, Jesus Christ. Now we’re going to have engineering up our asses, and we’re both going to be late. Do you ever fucking think anything through or do you just live on impulse?” Jim has never heard him swear so much.

“Do you regret what happened?”

“Don’t you _dare_ ask me that.” Bones spits back.

“Because I don’t. But then you act like this this morning, and I wonder if maybe you think of me as a mistake.” He keeps going, hoping if he stops feeding his partner’s anger, his own will subside and they’ll arrive somewhere in the middle of their rage. Instead, McCoy clenches his fists like he’s going to deck Jim.

“You know what? I just don’t need your fuckin’ pity. You’ve never spent the night with someone you’ve had sex with, so what makes me different? Is it because I’ll be dead in a year anyway, so from the goodness of your soul you’re spending more time with the lonely, dying man who won’t complicate your life for too long? I don’t need it.” Jim feels the rage come back, and he wants to dent the walls of the lift.

“That is bullshit.” Kirk shouts back. “All I’ve been thinking of is you, and how we’re going to make you better. And why are you different? I don’t know, but you are. I don’t pity you, except when you act like this.” McCoy’s face turns bright red with rage, and Kirk knows his is flushed as well, and they’re locked in a standoff until a gentle rapping comes from the outside.

“Wha’s wrong?” Scottie’s muffled voice asks.

“Sorry, just pressed the emergency stop by accident.” Jim calls back.

“Aye. Ave gotta get a comm installed in this thing.” The engineer replies, and a few moments later, the lift is moving again.

“Doctor McCoy.” Jim starts. “You are not to report to sick bay today. I will ask Christine to comm you if you are needed, but otherwise I believe you need to get caught up on your rest.” Leonard glares at him with that same malice he showed earlier, and Jim tries to maintain a passive face. He’s used to making unpopular decisions.

“Fuck you, captain.”

“Back to your quarters, doctor.” He replies as he steps out onto the bridge.

 

Leonard relapses. Hard.

There’s a rage boiling in his veins for being so weak and willing to buy into the fantasy, a hatred of Jim for being such a dick, crashing waves of self-pity at the universe for putting him here. Once again, he feels stupid, like he’s at the butt of some cosmic joke that is his life, and his skin itches, his head is heavy with emotion he doesn’t know how to deal with, and he just wants _out_.

So he finds himself in his washroom, fingers at the back of his throat, pharyngeal reflex kicking in. All that comes up is stringy gastric acid, his stomach empty from not having eaten since lunch yesterday, and it angers him further. There isn’t the relief that he remembers, the literal spewing of his guts that made him feel calm and in control. He _knows_ it isn’t logical, but he keeps trying, driven by some savage impulse that he doesn’t understand. He keeps gagging on his fingers, throwing up the same acid until it’s tinged with blood, until his throat burns when he breathes and his eyes are heavy and raw in his skull. Exhausted, he puts his hands on his thighs and breathes, slowly and haggardly.

He doesn’t feel good, and not really any better either, but he’s more numb, the quell of emotion dying down into a small lump in his gut. Not fixed, but manageable. Controllable.

He finds the strength to haul himself to the bathroom mirror, and flinches when he sees his reflection. His face is ghostly pale, but blood red eyes stare back at him hauntingly.

 _Fuck_.

Of course. He's too old for this, his blood vessels less elastic and unable to put up with the abuse. This is the game for a young man, not an old one of the verge of dying and pumped up with enough aspirin to make an elephant bleed from its ears. 

Most importantly, he has failed, and it's written in his face and body for the whole crew to see. For Jim to judge. He had never claimed a clean recovery - he still stops eating when under stress, when he feels ashamed, unworthy. But the last time he had purged was when he thought he had blinded Spock, and he had never done it this violently and recklessly before.

He had always known he hadn’t truly recovered. Hadn’t learned how, as one of the counsellors at treatment had put it, ‘deal with life on life’s terms’. Instead, he had simply taken himself out of anything that presented an emotional challenge for him, wrapped himself in a safe bubble so nothing could touch him, urge on that compulsion.

He wonders when he’ll be up to the task of purging again.

 

Christine comms him to ask if he needs anything, and to assure him that the sickbay has so many standing orders and so few patients that he’s unlikely to be needed. He brushes her off, telling her that he really does need some rest, but mentions that he’s had a bad coughing fit and might come down later to see if the angioregenerator might be able to cure some of the redness in his eyes.

Then he starts receiving visitors. Apparently word of his outburst had spread among the crew, and now everyone on the ship knows he is dying. He wants to refuse them, but his southern manners can't bear the rudeness. At least he plays the part well - the crew all seem uncomfortable as they enter and see his pallor and crimson gaze.

This first ensign thanks him for his hard work on keeping her particularly virulent strain of herpes under control, another tearfully remembers McCoy for sewing him up after the landing party had faced trouble. There are offers– ‘Let me bring you food’, ‘I have a comforter my grandmother gave me if you get cold’. There comes to be a bit of a line at his door, and people excuse themselves after a few minutes so others can see him. Initially, all the attention makes him grouchy. He assumes that his visitors are merely being polite, stopping by because it would be rude not to. 

Then, Tania Burrows comes in.

Bones smiles in spite of himself. Their shore leave romance hadn’t worked out, with him begging off that he was too old and she needed to find someone that could keep up with her. She had taken his rejection with an easy grace, and they had developed what could have been called a familial bond. She often came to him for some fatherly advice and general conversation, keeping him occupied in the sick bay when nothing else demanded his attention. Smart and congenial, she was a hard woman not to like.

“Leonard.” She gasps, and rushes to his bedside, grabbing a hold of his hand and gazing into his eyes with a tender concern.

“I’m OK.” He lies. 

“Leonard.” She says. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wasn’t diagnosed that long ago.” He replies. “And you haven’t been coming around as often.” She casts her eyes to the floor, and Bones feels a tinge of guilt.

“I’m just teasin’ ya. You’ve got a life, you shouldn’t be spending it in sickbay.” He clarifies. Her gaze returns to their clasped hands, a sadness etched in the way her brow wrinkles.

“I’m glad you came.” He adds softly. She bites down on her bottom lip, and when she finally looks up, tears are flooding her eyes and streaming down her face. With his other hand, he thumbs them away.

“No tears. Everything will be OK.” She lets out an unconvincing smile that comes out with a choked sob.

“I know.” The corners of her mouth droop down, and she takes a deep breath, her words wobbling as they leave her mouth. “It’s just… you’ve always been so good to me. And it’s not fair. I already watched you die once.” McCoy had forgotten about that.

She rushes on, as if he might die any second and there were words he needed to hear. “After you performed my abortion, you were the only thing that kept me from killing myself. After Dave abandoned me, I had a plan, and the only thing that kept me from going through with it was because you were always in sickbay, and when the thoughts got too dark I could just visit you. And I didn’t want to bother you, but you never turned me away, and in those moments, everything seemed to be OK. And I thought, maybe if I could find those moments then, maybe I could find them in other places too. And eventually, I did.” Bones blinks, feeling stunned and slightly ashamed. He had missed the signs completely.

“I’m sorry.” He says. “You could have told me. I could have prescribed you something, if not medication then a diet and exercise plan, some supplements…” She shakes her head.

“No. It worked out the way it was supposed to. I’m a stronger person now. Because you took the time to just sit with me, even though you didn’t know how important it was.” She smiles genuinely. “I’ll miss you. You changed my life. And I’m worried for all the future crew members who don’t have a Doctor McCoy in their corner.”

 

They keep coming after that, and keep thanking him for simple things he had done – the time that he assured a man in engineering that his parents were proud of him, the yeoman whom he had held and cried with after her she had learned that her parents had died. More stories pile in of things he's done, half of which he barely remembers, which had made all the difference to the crew.

He starts crying along with them, and gifts pile up in his room. Homemade chocolate chip cookies (“I had to trade my Andorian cigars to get access to the kitchen”), bottles of bourbon, handwritten cards and letters, trinkets from off-shore visits… and for once, he feels like more than the sum of his accomplishments on a horse, or as a doctor. For the first time, he sees himself as the other crewmembers do, and he thinks that maybe it matters if he lives or dies.


End file.
